


Great Deeds Against The Dead

by Get_Twisted (orphan_account)



Category: Death Spells, LeATHERMØUTH, Mindless Self Indulgence, My Chemical Romance, Ray Gun Jones, The Used
Genre: AU, Bandom - Freeform, Chapman Brothers, Crimes & Criminals, Decadence, Drug Use, Heist, Long, M/M, Many chapters, Robbery, alternative universe, weekly updated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 16:25:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 63,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1083141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Get_Twisted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard Way is part of an elite team of thieves known as Ray Gun Jones, all of whom operate in ways that only they understand. Motivated by only the riches the job brings, they set about their next big assault.<br/>Their target?<br/>Young musician Frank Iero has inherited over $1m worth of historical musical memorabilia. And he has no idea of the fortune he sits on. When RGJ set their sights on him, it seems the job is going to be much more difficult than they had expected. Desperate times call, and when Gerard and Frank are thrown into the dangerous world of deceit, it is no longer a matter or who wins, but who survives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Insult To Injury

**Author's Note:**

> GDATD will be uploaded every Saturday, or as close to that as possible. I tend to write when I am totally invested, so do not be surprised if there is a month difference between chapters.  
> Please leave any question or comments, they are much appreciated.

Distractions.  
I search for them in every way possible, scouring the hours in which I am conscious for anything that will indulge my animalistic behaviours.  
I'm a parasite, latching on to anything that can provide me with stimulation, no matter how sickening it may be. I am a bloodsucking, energy draining creature that holds no regard for anyone other than myself and it has come to my attention that I like it that way.  
I am a sucker for art.  
I glance over the wall before me, admiring the exposed brickwork of the building that gives the whole penthouse a sophisticated character. Upon each square foot is a painting, nailed to the wall in perfect line with every other, sizes ranging from too small to see from the other side of the room to standing on the floor without needing support from a feeble nail.  
Each piece stands alone, unique. There is no one image quite like the other.  
It's alien sometimes, to consider the prices these painting have on their heads, and the one they have put on mine. These were not works from my own paintbrush, and neither did I acquire them fairly.  
That's just all part of the game.  
I sit, slumped uncomfortably in an armchair that I have spent too many hours drinking beer and over expensive wine in the past few years, my head lolling to the side, resting just on my shoulder. My mind is clouded with an array of strange substances, each synthetic chemical altering my brain waves and plummeting me into short, sharp shots of energy then lethargy. He'll be here soon, I think. He has a built in radar for days like this. My skinny legs are parted and prevent me from slipping from the chair, the expensive black jeans clinging to my skin, like a climber to a jutting rock. My shirt is at least two days old, which is appalling considering I have no shortage of clothing to wear, and my dark hair is unwashed, falling in locks in my eyes.  
Not that I can see reality anyway.  
I eye the ticking wall clock, watching the hands wave at me as they pass, a sarcastic taunt, teasing me, jeering at me. He's not coming.  
But he is, I know he is.  
I take a swig of the whiskey in my hand, feeling the sharp liquid scrape and scorch my throat as it slips down, mixing with the cesspit of alcohol already fermenting in my stomach. Then I hear him knock. As if he had raised a middle finger to the clock, I call a strained come in.  
He enters in a flurry of jet black hair and smiles until he sees me. We lock eyes, holding the stare, neither of us prepared to look away first for fear of showing signs of weakness to the alpha male.  
I am a bug caught in his net, and the holes are not wide enough for me to slip through anymore. "I should have known you'd be no different than before." He says with a sigh, grabbing the hand rail that leads from the front door down an iron set of steps, giving access to the open planned apartment.  
I should have known he'd launch into this damn speech again. I watch him and take another swig, showing him. I am my own person, I can make my own decisions, and I have decided to get drunk and stoned and that is how I like it.  
He's one to criticize, we all have our obsessions and habits, and Mr Bert McCracken is no exception to that rule. But I don't care for his search history or hidden magazines, I care to know why he is in my living room.  
"I see you're making use of the Louvre wages." He says, admiring the paintings upon the wall.  
My gaze flicks from him to the art, and then back to him again. He wants them, God knows what for. He’d auction them off and make himself a millionaire, not that he really needs the money. We earn a living and keep the profits, that’s all we’ve ever needed. What you take is what you keep, and I took them. Bert has no right to admire them; he doesn't appreciate the intricate strokes of the brush or the carefully mixed colors that blend together, creating swirls of shadows and sparkles in eyes. He only cares for their fetching, and that is what separates us.  
“Come on, sit up. I have an idea.” He says, snatching my precious Jack Daniels from me. I lean like a child for a toy to it, but he holds it away.  
Grimacing and cursing him under my breath, I force myself to sit up, stretching my spine that I have curled around to fit this coffin of a seat, letting the vertebrae slide back into place uncomfortably. Bert sits on the table before me, caring not that it is only small and will probably not take his weight.  
He leans forward, his hands outstretched, eyes wide and one knee bouncing, the way he sits when I know something is brewing in that godforsaken head of his. “So, the Louvre was over a month ago, right?” He begins. I am not in the mood for any of his rash ideas today, but I refuse to put up a fight, and so I nod simply. “Well, I don’t know about you, but my funds are starting to look a little low again.” He continues.  
He’s identified the problem without realizing it; he doesn’t know about me. Unlike him, I don’t throw my money at the whore on the street or the stupid parties. I like art. I like whiskey.  
I have all I need.  
But he continues, clearly not holding my ungiven opinion accountable. “I’ve been doing some research,” by which I know he means snooping.  
We all have our secrets and our ways of operating, I have mine of course. I don’t care about anyone else’s, but Bert doesn't exactly make it subtle. “It turns out there’s a huge auction happening next Saturday at the Civic Hall, a bunch of old Misfits stuff has just been inherited by some guy who’s selling it all off.” He says, a devilish look in his eye. “Word is, it’s worth a hell of a lot.”  
“So what, you’re suggesting we steal a guitar from a guy who didn’t want it anyway?” I criticize, rubbing my sore eyes in order to stop them from burning in their sockets.   
“Could you at least have a little bit of optimism Gerard?” He groans, sitting back so he is no longer bent forwards and gives me a disappointed glare. I stare him down right back, confident that he will not hold me like a hook in the bleeding mouth of an unsuspecting fish. I shrug, probably aggravating him more. Bert sighs. “Listen, the guy has no idea how much this stuff is worth. It’ll be like taking candy from a baby!”  
The devil is sat on his shoulder, eyes glaring at me, tail flicking like an angered cat, horns razor sharp as he grins telling me this is a good idea. Why shouldn’t we steal again? The whole point of being a part of Ray Gun Jones is that we take what we can get and no one tells us not to. Bert is right, this could be important. If the stuff is worth anything…  
No.  
That’s a stupid idea. Paintings are easy to steal, people don’t go looking for things they didn’t know existed, and our Louvre basement heist was the perfect example of a crime under their noses. But an auction? Surely that’s too obvious, too dangerous. Besides, the Louvre had been planned months in advance, we knew exactly who to talk to, where to stay that night, the exact times it would all take place, and Bert wants to execute a heist in public with less than two week’s notice? That’s not just daring.  
That’s suicide.  
I shake my head, not this time. He watches me, attempting to solve my facial expression. I like watching him decipher me, attempting to read my words and movements. If he blinks twice, does it mean he's lying? Or maybe if he cocks his head it means he's joking. Perhaps the raise of his eyebrow means he's interested, or maybe the exact opposite.  
Who knows with that Gerard Way?  
“Come on Gerard please?” He asks, not begging, he would never beg. Not with me. “Remember the rush at the Louvre? Do you even remember how much we all laughed at their ignorance?” He says, playing the guilt card.  
It’s not going to work, I’m not a man of emotion, and neither am I a man of defeat. I shrug, making it crystal clear to him.  
Not this time.  
Bert frowns at me and crosses his strong arms across his chest, as if I am a disobedient child and he is the disappointed father, standing in a messiah’s place. Clearly there is to be no compromising here. I sigh and eye him carefully. I’m in this for a reason, and if it means humoring him, then I’m going to strike him a deal.  
I know he can’t do this without me.  
“If you can get everyone else to agree, then I’m in.” I say quietly and calmly, watching the stern frown soften into a thoughtful smile. He nods and stands up, reaching for my hand and pulling me to my shaky feet. He pulls me in for a quick, rough hug and holds me at arms length. “This will be the best heist we’ve ever done, I promise you.” He says, grinning widely. He can promise all he wants, but I know from the curl in his lip, from the stubble against his cheek and the growl in his stomach. I know from the odor of unwashed hair and the pressure his hand puts upon my shoulders that Bert can promise me nothing.

 

****

 

Back to silence, back to the cold harsh draw of loneliness as I slouch back into my chair. Bert will never convince the others that this is a good idea. As far as things go, I am the most difficult to convince; I will put up a fight and I will win eventually, Bert can’t do this without me.  
We are not the average thieves, we are not just criminals. We are the outcasts, the ones that society looked at on their dinner plate and pushed to the side because they decided that they didn’t like the taste just because it looked funny. We were the ones destined to go nowhere, so made ourselves go upwards without the approval of the onlookers.  
We do not ‘steal’, we simply use other’s belongings to our own value. We work our way upwards, seeping into the cracks of the security systems, breaking apart the thin layers of the ones they called corporate.   
The Louvre.  
The greatest heist we have ever executed.   
Nothing could top the riches, the sheer golden expenses we received as a reward.  
And Bert could never have done it without me.  
Of course, there had to be others, I could never pull off a distraction of an explosive nature, let alone even handle an explosive device. And I was certainly not nimble enough to work my body across an empty hallway, deceiving security cameras and protection beams. No, for that we needed a team. And what better than the only other social outcasts we could find? We swore, that day that we all came together, that this was for life. It had been the literary mind of my own brother who had materialized our name, branding us as a unit and no longer a gang of amateurs. We had been united.  
But now, the unity was different. We no longer collaborated to feel a rush, to risk our worthless necks for no good reason other than the fact that we could. Too quickly it had become about the image, the money, the expensive clothes and the playboy personality. Our schemes were no more than schoolboy tricks anymore, despite their outer grandiose appearance.  
As much as Bert likes to think he is the mastermind of such schemes, he can barely coordinate his hands and feet in similar movements.  
Bert is the scapegoat.  
I am the brains.  
Without me, Bert would have nothing but a suicide mission and two men calling him crazy.   
But for now, my brain can wallow in the pool of ethanol and chemicals, and it doesn’t take much for me to slip into a state of paralysis. I am aware of my surroundings and each detail within them, each corner and spec of dust, each atom that makes up my bookshelves and floorboards, each creak in the ceiling as the wind quietly blows.  
Yet I do nothing but watch the hope of a dream life slide away, into the corners and shying from the light like a mouse after being preyed upon by it’s devilish feline enemy. This is never going to change, I will never be the corporate high flyer sat observing his achievements, I will never be the name on a wall under a canvas adorned with color, I will never be in Bert’s search history.  
I am a parasite.  
And I will latch on to my challenge.

 


	2. Bets Set In Stone

I hate Bert.   
I have decided that this is the reason for my minimal contribution to the conversation at hand, and glare darkly at the people around the table. It always had to be Bert’s house, as if we were not already impressed by the large archways and millionaire style pride about the property.  
I sit between the only two people that I do not resent completely, although they have earned themselves a well deserved hatred from me currently.  
How could they have agreed to this stupid idea?   
I can’t believe the sheer idiocy of the people that I had carried out the most intelligent robberies with for almost five years of my life.  
To my right, the skinny frame of a blonde haired, eyes shaded, soft voiced man leans in, clasping his fingers together in a similar fashion to me. My brother.   
“Brief us.” He requests blankly, sitting forwards as if to show he really does care.  
I hope this is all an elaborate act.  
Bert, a smug grin plastered onto his hateful face, clears his throat. “Well Mikey, that’s what I’ve gathered you for.” I could be sick listening to his ridiculous ‘Holier Than Thou’ speeches. It’s an embarrassment to our name, and yet no one flinches. To my left sits a bulk of a man, long, dark curls masking his face before he tucks them behind his ear, swallowing and crossing his arms across his chest. He sits in silence.  
My impatience is growing rapidly.  
“As I’ve said, there is an action next Saturday, where we can be certain of the attendance of a young man in possession of our target.” He says, leaning close as if the walls have ears and are hungrily listening. “Which is rumoured to be worth quite a price.” He whittles on, still keeping with the secret agent act.   
“And what is that price?” Ray finally speaks from beside me. I glance at him, a glimmer of hope boiling inside me. He is as skeptical as I am, finally, someone who knows the stupidity of the situation. This will not be worth it, this is where Bert’s plan will fall through like a collapsed floor and he will plummet downwards and I will be right again. I can go back home to my paintings and my whiskey. Just thinking of so makes my throat itch for it’s harsh burn…  
“One Million Dollars.”  
What?  
My head snaps up instantly, outraged. “That’s ridiculous.” I say instantly, no longer concerned about Bert’s plans and instead focused on tearing him down from his pedestal. He smiles at me, shaking his head. I scoff and sit back in my chair, looking to Mikey and Ray for reassurance. They stare shocked at him. “Come on, there’s no way Bert! That’s absolute bullshit!” How can someone just inherit a million dollar fortune and not know? Either the guy’s a brainless vegetable or it’s all a lie. Bert watches me as my mind runs through the situation, attempting to find a logical answer to the preposterous questions his statement poses.  
But as I fear, there are none.  
“This is all outrageous.” I identify, gawking.  
“This is perfect.”  
I switch my gaze to Mikey like a cross-hair, he is caught in my range and he looks forwards, eyes fixated on Bert behind his glasses. I stare in ultimate horror, shock rooting me to my chair and rage corroding my vocal chords. “You can’t seriously believe that Mikey?” I snap, my voice rising in volume. He remains silent, refusing to flinch. “Ray, come on!” I tempt him, hoping to gain an ally. Ray is a kind soul; out of all of us, he’s the most capable of fitting in to the real world, settling down, having a family. He is the wisdom, the one voice of reason when all is lost.  
And yet he sits there, silent.  
He agrees.  
The bastards. The _backstabbers_. How could they soil the name we worked so hard to build together? This is no longer a matter of Bert’s arrogance or Mikey’s ignorance, not even Ray’s unfaithfulness. This is a matter of pride, and I refuse to let them drag me down so low.  
“I’m out.” I say, throwing my hands up and pushing my chair back on to two legs. They can’t do this without me, they’ll have to stop when they know I’m not taking part. But no one hesitates, no one blanches or rushes to convince me otherwise. “In case you’ve forgotten Gerard, we had a deal.” Bert says carefully.   
A _deal?_ He wants to drag me into this because of a _deal?_  
I am dangerously close to exploding, to throwing my guts against the walls and ruining Bert’s beautiful living room. It’s tempting as well, maybe it’ll show him how serious I am as I seep into his carpet, the bloodstains taking several washes to come clean. But Mikey gives me a sidelong glance, a warning look.  
 _Shut up._  
My own brother, advising me. I refuse to stand for this. “This is not what we do Bert, we don’t commit a public heist in the middle of the day. We take what we need when we need it, we don’t search for trouble.” I defend, taking another stab at him. He watches me, silently, as if I am simply nothing more than an entertainer and he has front row tickets to my performance.  
I slam my hands on the table, making the two beside me jolt in shock. “I’ll quit!” I threaten. “This is not what RGJ does, I won’t let it!” I vociferate, anger crawling through my windpipe, choking me as I scream. Bert slams his hands before mine, coming so close to my face that I recoil slightly. “You don’t have a _choice_.” He roars.   
The two of us stand there, backs arched, faces flushed and angry, two different people to the first time we had met. I pant heavy breaths and he glares, the venom elicited from our veins and running down our necks and arms, pooling into a corrosive mixture between us. “You are a cunt.” I spit harshly and sit back in my chair as slowly as I will allow myself, for fear that if I let my muscles do their bidding I will smash the wooden frame and probably cut a few people as I do. There is a sickening silence between us as I seethe at him, imagining him as a viper coming in to contact with a cobra, he is a cunt. I mean every syllable of the sentence, and I refuse to ever revoke it. Ray is the first to break the tension, speaking calmly. “Who is this guy?” He asks, turning Bert’s attention away from me momentarily. 

My eyes stay locked on him.

“His name is Frank Iero, 23. Looks like this.” He says, voice still low and rough from his outburst. He slides a piece of photography paper into the center of the desk, turning it over to reveal the target. He looks nothing like a millionaire, or even someone who dabbles in auctioning. He has dark hair that hides on eye in a flattened Mohawk style, the sides shaved and eyes sparkling. He wears a smile as if it was nothing more than a cheap accessory, and yet somehow he looks truly happy. I let my eyes linger for only a moment, the image only confirming my earlier accusations.   
Frank Iero is not a millionaire, and he certainly is not my next heist victim.  
“This will be a difficult heist to pull,” Bert continues, his audacity to refer to me growing increasingly vile. “But I have every confidence that the three of you before me will have some kind of plan.” I could very easily pummel my fist into his cheek, knocking a tooth loose and bloodying his carpet. He has no idea of the strains it causes me, the fear I let devour my insides with it’s tiny, knife like teeth. Bert doesn’t have to worry about whether or not his plan will cause any deaths, whether one inaccuracy he has made will cost the lives of the only people he has ever called friends. He only ever has to tell everyone what to do and then watch on from the sidelines, never risking his neck, never endangering his precious existence. It is not surprising that I am the first to leave the table.

 

****

“You really let loose this time then?” Mikey says as we pay for our coffees at the counter of the small cafe and head for the door, the sunshine too bright for my tired eyes to deal with. I squint, shielding my corneas as the sun threatens to fry them in their sockets. “I don’t even want to talk about it, the whole idea is bullshit.”  
“So bullshit that it might actually work.” Mikey shoots back as we walk side by side, sipping and squinting.   
“That’s easy for you to say, you don’t have to plan the whole damn thing.” I retort, sending him an unimpressed glance. He nods, knowing I am right.   
Why couldn’t he have known that beforehand?  
"Look, Gerard, I know it’s not easy for you, and I know we’re all counting on you. But if this really is as good as we think, we may never even have to heist again.” He says, a calm tone to his voice. I think for a moment, my mind working on little else but his words. “Promise?” I ask. He frowns, prompting me to continue. “Promise that after this, I never have to do this again.” This time I tell him, I command that he does so, giving him no choice. My brother, who is younger than me and yet has so much more maturity over his mind and actions than I do, looks me dead in the eye through his sunglasses and places a hand on my shoulder. “I promise.” He says.  
I don’t need anything else, that’s it.  
A goal, a finish line stretches ahead of me.   
This will be it, the final stretch.  
I will never again have to listen to Bert’s superior bullshit, or ever have to threaten to walk out again. I will no longer have to worry every second of my life that my mistakes are coming back in the form of cop cars and jail sentences.

After this, I’ll be free.

I look to the road ahead of me, to the street on which I have walked for five years and just watch.  
I watch the cars speed by, the driver’s minds fixed on the road, their journeys mapping out ahead of them as they hit the gas pedal. I watch the mother and her son hold hands as they cross the street, her blonde hair flying like a kite caught in a tree branch in the wind. I watch the small group of teens laugh and joke their way down the sidewalk, flipping dyed hair and blinking through masses of smokey eyeliner and I realize that all of this could have been my life. I could have been the driver, the mother, the teens. It could all have happened in an instant but it hadn’t. I have lived a life in which I had risked more than what these people have put together, and now there is an end to the horizon, there is land at ho on my sinking ship of self hatred and anxiety, there is a finale.  
And I’m coming to get it.


	3. An Unlucky Encounter

Bert eyes me carefully as I brief everyone again, observing the way I pronounce my words, watching my lips.  
I'm not a liar.  
I'm not sabotaging this.  
That would just prove to him that I am childish and incapable of handling his commands as he believes. No, instead, I continue to address the group, informing them of the plan. Right now I am the center of their universe, I hold their attention like a politician to his composure. This is the time in which I have never been more important, because without me, they'd all be goners.  
It's shocking that it's been a week already; my mind has not registered the passing of days and nights as I stood drinking and plotting through every waking moment. Time has passed and allowed for the tension to have settled between everyone, although Bert is still unconvinced by the looks of it.  
He'd never admit it, oh no.  
That would be my job, but I too am playing a game and I refuse to lose. This is the last time, this will be the final crime, the heist to end all heists.  
We'll be rich and bored and no longer in need of a thrill.  
It sends a comforting chill to my bones as I imagine never having to move from my chair, never having to worry about my sanity because I no longer needed it, I could drown my cells in alcohol and scare my thoughts with caricatures of hallucinations. It is all so close.  
Just one more job.  
"Is that really going to work?" Bert interrupts me as I explain how we'll snatch the money. No one questions my plans, there's no need to considering they always work, and we always come out successful when everyone listens to me. He's really pushing it, testing me to my limits. My tolerance is low with him as it is, but he doesn't deserve the outburst again, or even a swift kick to the abdomen. He deserves to be proved wrong. "Yes" I say, "it'll be much easier to handle taking the money than the goods." Bert frowns at me and turns to the others, who I am confident are on my side. "If everyone sees a bunch of four dudes running like their tail's are on fire carrying the entire auction with them, they'll know we're up to something." Ray says. I fight back a sly smile, forcing myself not to grin smugly and flash Bert an iniquitous glare because it will only put me on par with him, and I hope to God I will never be the bastard that he is.  
This is by far the most simple plan I've ever created, which is likely what makes it so effective. Each of us is dressed smartly, suits pressed and clean and shoes shined. Bert and Ray have opted to tie back their hair, while I allow my newly washed locks to sit neatly beside my cheeks. We look more like FBI agents than simple buyers at an auction, but we're more likely to pass being overdressed than turning up wearing black jeans and smelling more like a minibar than our aftershaves.  
The small amount of confidence I had before has rekindled in my mind, and I begin to race through every possible situation.  
Getting caught, getting arrested, getting shot but most of all, failing.  
Mikey is the first to go. I instructed that we each leave within five minutes of each other, and Mikey was to be the first to be selected. I watch my brother walk away, hands slipped into his pockets and a confident composure about him. Nerves kick in as he disappears around the street corner, what if someone is watching us? What if they have already figured us out and Mikey is being beaten unconscious and hauled into a police van?  
What if we're next?  
I can no longer afford to think this way as Ray eyes his wristwatch, counting down the minutes until it is his turn to depart. Time almost slips away, and before I am aware that Ray is leaving, I close my eyes and focus myself. My hands shake subtly, and I stuff them into my pants, determined not to let Bert see my fear showing.  
Time stands between us, the sound of a clock ticking echoing in my head like a haunted hall, bouncing off the walls and striking fear into my heart. Bert sighs and I open my eyes again. "See you." He says simply, and takes off, leaving me standing in the side alley we gathered in alone.  
Despite how much I resent him, I preferred it when he was here.  
Now all I have is my thoughts and fears, the twist in my stomach as time taunts me yet again. Like the wall clock in my apartment, I am determined to prove it wrong. Before I set foot upon the pavement, I take a sip from the small flask of whiskey that I concealed in my pocket and swallow hard. This is it. I begin to follow the path everyone else had mapped out perfectly with their feet and take deep breaths, attempting to settle my nerves as I approach the corner of the street.  
As I turn, I spot the venue before me. The Civic Hall stands tall and grand less than ten meters away, it's church like, gothic structure is the only evidence that it is an elderly building. Outside, people are gathered, dressed smartly and carrying cards and clipboard, smiling as they discuss the taking from their last auction.  
Anxiety begins to rise within me, I have never put RGJ at risk like this. Of course, we've risked our lives before, but we have never been brash enough to do it in public surrounded by people of high status. As I approach the doors, taking each step slowly, one at a time I earn a few curious looks from people.  
I've blown it already. I think, forcing my feet up another mountain of a step, fearing constantly that it will crumble and I will fall down thousands of feet into a jail cell. But they soon turn back to their conversations, brushing me off the collar faster than I had imagined.  
I am blending in.  
As I reach the entrance, I exhale deeply, eyeing the crowd before me. I am almost there. Standing on my tip toes, I strain above the people gathered inside, hoping to spot the familiar frame of Mikey, or even Bert. But I can't see, my vision obstructed by others dressed as smartly as I am. I reach more, stretching my torso, hoping to catch a glimpse of Ray's familiar curly mop...  
"Are you okay there sir?" I whip around, as if electricity has been shot through my skin, buzzing with nerves and feeling the fear rise in my throat. Before me, a man dressed in a perfectly pressed suit stands, a concerned look drawn upon his pale face. His head is covered with a smart black fedora, strands of artificially jet black hair escaping from underneath and covering his eye. He stands shorter than me, his lips gathered into a gentle smile.  
It's him.  
There's no way that this is happening, it can't be. _Focus,_ I force myself, shaking my head and sighing. "Yeah, sorry, I was just trying to get a look at what seats are available." I say with as much confidence as I can muster. Iero watches me. It really is him.  
If only it had been Bert, or Ray, anyone other than me to run into him now. "You're a buyer?" He asks, relaxing his shoulders and smiling.  
This is not the time for small talk, I am a failure when it comes to social interaction anyway. I nod, refusing to open my mouth for fear of the truth slipping out, or a crack in my voice that alerts his suspicion. "I'm selling, you got anything in mind?" He asks.  
Play your cards carefully Gerard.  
"I'm a... musician." I manage, hoping the pause between my words acts as dramatic as opposed to skeptic. "I heard there was some stuff on offer." His eyes instantly light up, a hopeful twinkle crossing his face. "Cool, I'm actually selling some old instruments and stuff, though I can't see them fetching for much." He grins. I return the smile as much as possible, keeping my lips pressed together. Too much and he'll suspect I'm lying, too little and he'll see through me. "Oh really?" I ask, feigning ignorance. "I doubt that, I think you'll find people will pay a good price for any old junk." I say, toying with him, though he is unaware. I would have enjoyed giving such a wise opinion if I didn't already know the value of his items.  
 _I know nothing of this guy._  
"How did you come by it all?" I ask, beginning to relax. He smiles, as if I was simply an acquaintance, someone he was enjoying conversing with.  
"I inherited most of it from my Grandfather, he was a musician, much like yourself." He says, a flicker of melancholy in his tone. "Very private man, never really cared much for sharing things." He added, breaking the tension with a sharp smile.  
"Sounds excellent." I comment. Excellent? Twenty seven years I have resided upon this hell of a planet and I have never used the term excellent to describe anything. But Iero doesn't seem to notice the vile taste that I fight to swallow from the words, he simply smiles. "I'm Frank." He says, holding out a hand for me to shake. I take it, feeling the cool of his palm against mine. "Gerard." I say.  
Shit.  
The one thing I could have easily kept to myself, the only thing that could ever connect me with every unlawful act I have ever and will ever commit is my real name. And I just proudly announced it to the guy I'm going to steal from. What was I thinking? Any other target and I'd have confidently introduced Simon or Robert, Richard or Arthur to them, no hesitation about it. But this time, that damn Iero had me. Like a hound hunting a fox, he had wrapped me around his finger, pulling me tight against the skin and threatening to choke me. Now, I was a part of his game, and I was no longer the dealer.  


 

****

I am seated between a rather plump woman who wears the most outrageous colored dress and matching hat that could ever have been tailored, and a wiry man whose cheek bones look as if they have simply deflated. My eyes scan the heads before me, I am sat at the very back of the hall, and have no trouble zoning in on Ray's curls. He sits to the left of the room, midway and towards the very end of the row.  
He's in a good position.  
Next, I scout out Bert, who is only a few rows behind Ray, sat to the far right, the last one in the row.  
Of course he's nailed his position.  
Mikey is more difficult to spot, but I eventually catch a glimpse of his blonde crop on the very front row, directly in the center.  
Nothing can tie us together, we are each sat at least three rows apart, eyes focused on the front of the room, minds working away silently.  
The room quietens as a man wearing thick, round glasses steps up to the podium, greeting us all. His voice is low and fills every inch of the room, diffusing into the air like tiny particles.  
The auction lasts two hours.  
I glance at the small program folded neatly in my hands and scan the names, looking for our target collection. Iero's memorabilia is just after the first collection, a prime spot for buyers. Before I have chance to understand what the auctioneer says, people are raising their hands, the bidding quickly commencing.  
We are to bid no more than $1000 for anything.  
Bert had of course objected to the idea of bidding, but the truth of the matter is that no one attends an auction to sit and not bid. This is not as simple as our night jobs where there is no one around to civilize with, this time we must blend in.  
The Auctioneer begins to narrow down his buyers, the bids already at $120. As he asks for another offer, I raise my hand, upping the price to $130. I haven't a clue what I bid for, but it certainly gets everyone else eager to win me over. I keep my hand down at the next call, watching the bidders battle it out silently, their only attacks being the swift raise of their hand, swiping the air like a swing of a sword.  
Bert's hand rises at the offer of one forty five, but he drops it again as the auctioneer calls one fifty.  
The offer stands at one sixty five eventually, going to a balding man on Ray's row.  
Five more items are called afterwards, and I watch as each is sold off to another proud winner, victorious in their purchase.  
Next, it's Frank.  
My eye catches him standing towards the back of the room behind the podium beside a taller man with a hint of stubble. His brown eyes scan the room, his arms folded and back against the wall.  
He is elegantly out of place.  
I force myself to tear my curious eyes away as the auctioneer announces the items, most of which we are already aware of.  
Bert's habit of snooping is good for something after all.  
The first is a guitar, of which the bidding starts at $300.  
The goal is to battle it out with as many bidders as possible until they pay more than what's necessary. The more money, the more we are going to take home.  
Mikey's hand shoots straight up as the bidding rises to three fifty, causing a few around him to confer quietly. Next up is the man beside me, who doesn't really strike me as someone who would be particularly interested in owning an electric guitar. Ray is next, raising the stakes to four hundred. I catch the eye of a man in the row in front of me, who raises his hand.  
He expects me to battle.  
I shoot my hand upwards, calling my bid at five hundred and gaining a hushed coo from the audience. The bidder before me raises again, and I scan the crowd for any other buyers. Bert places a bet, the price now over six hundred. The guy in front places another bid and I raise my hand again, determined to out bid him. The fight between us continues like a crusade until I call the price dangerously close to our one thousand dollar limit. Luckily, the buyer in front beats me out, winning the bid at twelve hundred.  
I feel a drop in my stomach of disappointment at my loss before I remember that I am not intending to win the items.  
Maybe when this is over, I'll come to a few auctions.  
The collection contains another twenty four items, each bidding starting higher than the last. I scribble down the prices each item is bought for at the end of each auction:  
$1200, $3000, $20,000, $40,000... The prices rise and the audience grows restless, their bulging wallets hungry for bigger bets, bigger stakes. They bet higher and higher like a drug addict looking for a stronger dose until the auctioneer calls the bidding over. The collection has been cleared. I look down at the prices and add them up quickly.  
I am shocked at the total.  
$1,000, 200.  
Over one million.  
Bert had been right, probably for the first time ever. My heart begins to hammer in my chest at the thought of the following events.  
We're to be millionaires.  
We agreed to stay at least five minutes into the next collection, and leave only when someone else on our row does to avoid arousing suspicion. This proves no problem for Ray and Bert, as they stand to leave within two moments of one another, casually making their way to the back of the hall. Mikey leaves not long after and we avoid eye contact completely. Eventually, Miss-Walking Jackson Pollock Canvas stands to leave and I rise too, shimmying past the people my row until I reach the spacious area of the hall.  
I join everyone at the back, a smile spreading quickly across my face. "Not bad, I'd say that was even enjoyable." Ray grins. We talk quickly and quietly to avoid drawing attention to ourselves, a habit we have become familiar with. The next step is much harder; coax Iero into taking us to see the winnings.  
My job, of course.  
Being the creator of such extravagant schemes often means I am the one left to do the difficult parts. It's not a problem, however, as we disband and split apart, Frank catches my eye from his position against the wall and smiles, beginning to walk towards me. As we join, side by side and begin walking to the entrance, he grins widely. "I never thought I'd get such a taking on all that old trash!" He says, eyes wide with disbelief.  
"I wish I'd had the wallet to have kept on bidding." I grin, the fear that had growled in my organs before was now seemingly dormant. Frank pats my shoulder, his touch making my stomach roll, though not with the same anxiety as before. "Maybe next time Gerard." He laughs and I find myself chuckling too, like I am genuinely pleased for his winnings.  
Am I?  
No, of course not, those are soon to be mine anyway.  
We leave the hall, our figures casting long shadows in the sunlight as we talk, heading over to the wall that runs alongside the stairs and perching ourselves, side by side upon it.  
Frank sighs and watches the people moving like worker bees, up and down the stairs, in and out of the hall, along the street and across the road. "Isn't it odd that before I went into that hall I was unemployed, disowned, busking and looking like I was about to be evicted for not paying rent." He chuckles quietly.  
Wait, he wasn't a professional auctioneer?  
My preconceptions about him had been spot on, and yet I had let everyone, and him, convince me that this money would be nothing more than a layer of icing on his rich cake.  
I feel a shiver run down my spine, stroking the bone with icy fingers and sending a sickening rumble to my stomach.  
"I've rather enjoyed your company today, Gerard," he smiles, turning to me and grinning "I think you may have been a bit of a lucky charm."  
"What do you mean?" I ask, my mind whirring, heart rate increasing. My hand strokes the whiskey flask in my pocket, tempted.  
"Well, I seem to recall your prediction for people paying a lot for any old 'junk'," He says, flashing a brash smile my way. I grin down at my feet, a strange feeling washing over me, something that feels almost like pride. "I'd love to even lay eyes on money like that." I say, not a total lie in all respects. Frank sighs and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of paper. He slips the pen from the lapel of my suit and winks at me as he does, beginning to scribble on the white material. I smile too late for him to see it as a response to the wink, which was of course nothing more than a friendly gesture.  
He hands me the paper and pen, smiling. "Call sometime, we'll go grab a coffee or hit up another auction if you fancy." He says, watching the way I slip it into my top pocket. I thank him, my head spinning, losing the ability to focus.  
Did I just make an ally out of our target?  
Before I can ask anything else, Frank stands, bidding me goodbye, and saunters away, hands in pockets, making his suit fly wide beside him.  
And I watch, unable to find the strength to stop him.

 

****

Things have clearly not gone to plan.  
I dread the looks I will receive as I make my way back to the alley where I am certain everyone else has already rendezvoused, rattling my brain into coming up with an excuse. He tried to attack me. No, that was obviously a lie, we all knew how short Frank was. I’m not much of a fighter, but even I could could have beaten him if things had come down to it, and it was better not to tell them a lie that they knew was farfetched.  
Before I can formulate another idea, I feel a hand grab my shoulder and I am tugged into the alley, three smiling faces beaming at me. They all watch me, as if I am a messiah delivering his sermon upon the sinners.  
I am no God today.


	4. Like A Kick In The Head

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing has become a little more dispersed over the holiday period, but I can guarantee chapter five next week. Please be sure to give some feedback, I'm getting really excited about this fic and I'd love to hear some opinions!  
> \- Get_Twisted

 “You told him what?!” Bert cries as I casually mention that not only had I failed in my aspect of the plan, but that I had also given away my identity. I scramble over my words, stuttering to find an excuse but nothing comes. I look to the others for help, but they stand as astonished as Bert. “Guys I didn’t…”  
Suddenly a sharp, hot, pain screams through my left cheek and I feel myself waver, falling backwards and into the supportive arms of Mikey. My eyes had automatically closed as the impact jetted through my jaw, and my hand flies up to cradle the throbbing, bleeding wound. As my eyelids flutter open, I see Bert stood, panting for air, his fist still balled up as if the tension in his arms is collected in his fingers, like the blood running through his veins had all gravitated to his screwed up fist.  
Ray steps between us, blocking our intense stares of loathing. I scramble to my feet, patting Mikey on the shoulder as a non verbal thank you for catching me. “Come on, this needs to stop!” Ray stresses with urgency, instantly taking the role of the peace keeper.   
“Don’t tell me he didn’t deserve that.” Bert snaps, pointing towards me as if I am not even here.   
“He’s right.” I say, wincing at the pain as I speak and having to pause to lick the warm blood from the inside of my cheek. “I shouldn’t have bothered coming back.”  
“Gerard no, look you made a mistake, we all do. There must be another way around this, anything!” Ray shakes his head, turning to me. His face looks worn and tired, much different from the life he once held before all the money, before Bert. Before all of this, he’d had life in his eyes and hell in his smile. Now, I had hollowed him with my tiresome plans and petty arguments. I had eroded the soft outer happiness and exposed his nerves, raw and damaged.  
And then, much like Bert’s punch, it hits me.  
“His number…” I say, quickly fishing the piece of paper from my pocket. As my fingers close around the screwed up note, I whip it out, presenting it hopefully to the others. “He gave me his number, said to call him for a coffee or something another time.” I say, talking slowly to avoid stretching the stinging cut any wider.   
“So we call him and threaten him?” Mikey suggests, raising an eyebrow questionably. I shake my head, Bert taking the words from my tongue.   
“No, that’ll be too obvious, and it will no doubt tie Gerard in with the whole thing.” He says, avoiding my eye contact.   
I can’t help but wonder if he secretly wants me to be caught in this, as a cruel punishment for my crimes against his ego. “This has to be done delicately, the most useful thing would be to target someone who is close enough to him to know things like bank details, addresses, things that we can use.”  I shake my head, the shudder of pain in my cheek reminding me not to go overboard with the body language. “No, he said something about being disowned, I doubt we’ll have any luck finding someone close.” I say, the four of us finally conversing without two of us ready to kill the other. “Then someone has to get close.” Ray says. I stare down at the floor as I consider his words, it could work. If someone was to become well acquainted with him, we could easily work out the details of his winnings, and maybe even more interesting financial investments.  
The question was, who?  
As I turn my gaze upwards, everyone is staring at me. At first I am confused, and wipe my cheek, thinking there is more dark blood oozing from the crack in my skin. But their eyes stay trained on me, silent.   
“ _Me?”_ I question, looking to each of them.  
“It would make sense,” Ray says, though I doubt he is talking to me despite his gaze being locked on mine. “If Gerard was able to get his phone number already, and Iero is expecting to spend time with him, it seems only logical.” Mikey stands beside me, speaking up.  
“Will it be safe? What if he’s caught?” Of course my brother is the only one with any concern as to my actual safety if I am to go through with this. I look over to him, his concerned eyes reminding me of the look Frank gave me the first time we had encountered one another.   
Caring, understanding.   
“It’s okay, Ray is right. I’ll come up with something.” I say, giving him a small smile. I almost feel Bert’s sneer as he silently jeers at me, reminding me that the last thing I came up with didn’t exactly go to plan. But he no longer has the ability to anger me anymore; his lashing out had only shown me just how vulnerable he is, how afraid of failing he just might be.  
Bert may think he has won this round, but he has only exposed his flaws.

 

 

****

 

The following morning, we gather at my apartment. This is the first time since before the Louvre that we have gathered here for a briefing, and it feels strangely empowering. My cheek has scabbed over and is now turning a rather extraordinary array of colors, currently settled on a dark, dirty purple. Everyone is seated around the coffee table, Mikey and Ray seemingly rather relaxed while Bert seems more on edge.  
Rightfully so.  
I stand, leaning against my chair and begin to inform them of my idea.  
“Right, first things first, absolutely no one must contact me while I am with Iero unless it is a serious emergency.” I say, holding eye contact with each of them.   
I am the sun and they are the planets orbiting around me, dependent on me.   
How I’ve missed this feeling.   
“Secondly, no one must make any contact with him at all, not even a polite hello.” I continue, spreading my feet a little wider to gain a more steady stance.   
“This isn’t going to work like other jobs, and even our last attempt was too outgoing.” I say, this time having secure evidence to support my point as well as taking a light pinch at Bert. “It’s probably going to take time.” They watch me and I can almost hear them sighing inside. I too am not happy, this was supposed to be the last job. But there’s no hiding the truth of the matter, so it’s best to address it first. “We’ll start by arranging to meet casually, the occasional trip for coffee, the bar, simple things.” I say, instantly becoming more animated as I begin to explain. “Step one will be the basic buildings of a relationship. Next, step two, which will be slightly more spread out. This will be an invitation to a personal event, things like a party or a dinner. This step will be crucial; this first interaction on a personal level will determine the following steps’ success.” I deliver my plan confidently, with much less fear than I had the previous morning in the dark, seedy alley.   
I’m still not sure whether that is a good thing or not.  
“Step three will be likability. The point at which he is confident that I am loyal and worthy of friendship. This will be shown through an ability to connect, asking me for opinions, making specific plans just for the two of us, even asking for help. This is probably the most important step, once we are certain that he sees us as a friend, we have a much better chance of success.”  
“Finally, step four, loyalty. Trust works both way, and when Iero is comfortable, he’ll begin to show signs of trusting us strongly, sticking up for me, giving his own advice, laughter and pleasure when spending time with me. At this point, we will strike.” I say, taking a short breath between my sentences.  
“Once we are sure of Iero’s friendship, we can begin the heist. The first port of call will be to find where he is keeping the money and how to access it. A bank will be more difficult, but we’ve all robbed banks before, so I doubt there will be trouble there. Next will be removing it without him noticing, which you can leave up to me. This will also be perfect for the next step, which is making sure that I cannot be connected to this in any way. As long as I am with Iero when the heist happens, he cannot hold me accountable for anything.” I finish, looking to them for questions.  
Ray is the first to ask. “So, will this be a break in and remove job, or not?” He asks.   
“That depends on where he’s holding the money. Once everything is safe, I should be able to relay you the necessary information.” I say. Everyone else remains silent. It seems, yet again, that I have delivered a perfect scheme, flawless even.  
Though Bert’s surly expression is attempting to convince me otherwise, this time I am confident. I am confident because I have called the shots and he hasn’t. This is my plan, through and through. I decide how we get the money and when, and I control the very core of the plan. This is what RGJ should be, intelligent criminality.  
Not an overly self indulgent and highly dangerous one off success, but a detailed and sophisticated idea.  
Bert really should learn a thing or two from me.

 

I would have preferred to organize a coffee trip with Frank without everyone watching me, silent eyes burning into my skin as they eagerly observe, but unfortunately they are not giving me a choice. I hold the phone to my ear, not wanting them to hear our conversation.  
There has to be some kind of privacy.  
He answers on the third ring, and I instantly feel myself struggle for words.  
“Hello?” He questions when I remain silent.  
"Hey Frank, it’s Gerard.” I say, hoping that once I have broken the seal that has coated my throat, the conversation will run much more smoothly. He replies with a cheery hello.   
This is when I am supposed to talk.  
“So, I was wondering if you wanted to take up that offer of a coffee sometime?” I say, swallowing and looking over to Ray for support. His smile is soft, comforting, convincing me that I can do this confidently. “Sure, I was wondering when you’d ask! How about we meet at Starbucks tomorrow, at say… 12:30?” He says.  
Tomorrow?   
Maybe this plan would work faster than I had expected.  
I agree eagerly before we hang up, exhaling a sigh of relief. The others look at me, waiting for my retelling of the conversation.   
“Tomorrow, Starbucks, 12:30.” I say. They smile at me, Mikey patting my shoulder as a small congratulations and Ray beaming, even Bert has a phantom of a smile over his expression. I feel a wave of pride wash over me, something that helps to redeem the guilt laced horror I had experienced the day before. Something about this arrangement makes me feel anxious, but not in the nerve twitching, gut wrenching way I had covered so well before.   
It’s the kind of anxiety you get on the night before your birthday, that stupid smile that stretches across your lips in the dark and tells only of the butterflies caged in your stomach, fluttering their tiny, velvet wings against the insides and tickling you with excitement.  
Why I felt this way was uncertain, but I put it down to the sheer deviousness of my plan, and the hope that it had brought to everyone.   
Maybe, just maybe, this was where everything was going to change.

 

 

****

 

Even though despite my clear instructions to avoid contacting me, Mikey does not seem to have grasped the concept. I am stood alone outside Starbucks in the cold with nothing but a thin scarf and a torn jacket to insulate my shivering limbs, hoping that I have not been stood up. He texts quickly, as if he is waiting for my reply. Message after message assures me that he’s coming, but I quickly begin to doubt so. I pull a cigarette from the pocket of my jeans, shielding the flame to prevent the wind extinguishing the delicate, hot fire. I light it up, simply to pass the time and burn tobacco deeper into my lungs. As I take a satisfactory drag, I lean my body around to see down both sides of the street, and swiftly pull myself back as I spot a familiar figure. Quickly tapping out a reply to Mikey, I slip my phone back into my pocket and hastily remove my cigarette, straightening my back and trying to feign my ignorance to his presence. As he approaches, I break a smile with him, instantly going in for the handshake he offers me.  
Interaction.  
He wears a black and white striped t shirt that sits snugly over a long sleeved black shirt, pulled just over the waist of his jeans. His hair is less tamed and instead is teased and ruffled into a long mess in front of his face. I scan his face briefly, expression soft, genuine.  
He seems honestly pleased to see me.  
“Hey, what happened to your cheek?” He asks as we greet.   
“Some bastard took a swing at me last night at a bar.” I smile, reveling in calling Bert a bastard without him being aware. Frank winces slightly as he glances at the wound, but quickly moves the conversation on.  
“Damn it’s cold!” He says, wrapping his arms around his petite frame and smiling. I catch on quickly and flick my cigarette to the ground.   
“I agree.” I say and turn to the door just behind us. Pulling on the handle, I allow him in first.

For some reason, I am laughing as Frank regales me with a story from last summer, my shoulder pressed against the window of the store and my warming fingers cradling a cup of hot coffee. I should have found it difficult to be around him this way, after all, this was only the first part to a grand plan that my brilliant mind had concocted. But it felt natural, enjoyable.   
I suppose that’s a good thing.  
I’d rather come across as naturally friendly than trying too hard.  
“But yeah, man I wish I could do that again.” He smiles as he pauses to take a sip of coffee. I nod and smile, watching him carefully; the way he perches the porcelain between his top and bottom lip, the way the froth leaves a tiny curve above his cupids bow.   
“So what about you, Gerard? You got any interesting tales?” He says, placing the cup down onto the table and leaning on one arm. I pause, tearing my attention away from the features of his pale face and thinking.  
“Not really, I’m not one for social interaction.” I say lightly, lifting the coffee to my mouth. Frank frowns and sits up, crossing his arms on the table.   
“How come?” He asks “I thought you’d have some cool stories, being a musician and all.”  
Shit.  
I’d forgotten about that, of course. This had all been going so smoothly, and then he’d thrown me a curve ball.  
Now I had to bat.  
“Well, I’m not really much of a successful one.” I smile, hoping to be as enigmatic and ambiguous as possible.  
But Frank persists.  
“My old man played the guitar, taught me all I know.” He smiles carefully. “Do you play guitar?” He asks.  
Too many questions in one conversation.  
This is turning sour too quickly, my answers are becoming transparent. I have to pull this back somehow.  
“Yeah, but I was never any good. I’m a singer really.”   
Well done Gerard. This is it, I’ve blown it, if he ever asks me to sing, what do I do? It’s not like I can pull off the old Peter Pan act from elementary school, I swore I’d never wear those stupid tights again.  
But to my surprise, he smiles and nods. He’s buying it.  
It’s not a total lie, I suppose. I sang occasionally, around the apartment, in the shower, in Bert’s car. In fact, on the way to the Louvre, we’d all happily chanted along to some ridiculous mix tape as we riled ourselves up with excitement.   
Though I can’t remember what song it was.  
“That’s pretty cool, you ever done any professionally?” He asks. Good, this is good, I can work with this.  
“Not really, I tried out for a few bands, tried making my own, never really got anywhere.” I grinned, aiming for the joke side, hoping to hit a humorous nerve.  
“So what do you do now?” He asks.   
“I work at a record store.” I say with fluency. I surprise myself with the response, no time whatsoever spent hesitating. I had just lied, straight to his face, and he didn’t suspect a thing. This was working out much better than I had anticipated.  
“What about you?” I ask, effortlessly moving myself out of the danger zone. Frank shrugs.   
“I play around, got a couple of friends who like me to play with them occasionally.” He says, finishing his coffee and sighing a deep ‘ah’ as he places the cup down. I tell him that’s cool, because in all honesty I think it is. Where I had to invent my mystique and hopeful musician act, Frank didn’t. He’d just been honest, just told me off the cuff without having to create some elaborate story to run alongside it.   
He was Frank Iero, he played guitar. That was all he needed.  
I finish my coffee not long after him and slide my cup beside his, only stopping when I hear them clink together. We’re done here, this has been all the two of us had required.   
“You know, I really enjoyed that.” He says as we stand, pushing our chairs and tucking them under the table. We walk side by side towards the door.  
This time, he opens it for me.  
“Me too.” I say as we are bombarded with the contrasting coldness of the outdoors.   
“We should do this again sometime.” He says as we stand facing one another, awaiting the prime moment to bid goodbye. I agree with a smile, and I watch him turn and walk away.   
Something in me tells me that it is a good idea that we do this again, only I’m not sure whether it’s for the reasons I planned, or the reasons I want.


	5. Interaction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I am sat on the floor with a man I have know for just over a week whom I plan to steal over one million dollars of his money from, and we are about to share a joint.  
> And yet, I gladly accept my current position."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks guys for 100 hits! please leave some feedback, I'd love to know what y'all think. Writing process has sped up a little and chptr 6 is well on the way to completion.

The next week and a half seems to fly by, and I have automatically fallen into a routine. I wake up, spend the morning getting coffee with Frank, go home, call the guys, drink. It’s a comfortable routine, and I quickly become accustomed to it. It doesn’t take long for the repetitiveness to set in, and the others seem to notice.  
“That’s the third whiskey you’ve had in the past fifteen minutes.” Ray says gently, eyeing me from across the room. We are gathered at my apartment again, though I cannot remember what for. I glare over at him, not able to find the strength to tell him to mind his own business.  
“Who cares, what’s more important is that his plan is getting us nowhere!” Bert hisses from beside me, anger foaming spit at his lips.  
“It’s working better than yours!” Mikey steps in to defend me, something he seems to have been doing an awful lot lately. I sit back in silence and watch the three of them bicker, oddly enjoying them argue over me. Before long though, I conclude it is time to contribute.  
“We’re getting closer to stage two, I can feel it.” I say, silencing them instantly, heads turning to me. “Iero is beginning to show signs of trust, he is punctual to our meetings, contributes fully to every conversation.”  
“Making friends isn’t going to get us any richer, Gerard.” Bert snaps. I ignore him, knowing my steely glare will be too much for his corrupted mind to cope with, and I will no doubt end up with another bruise. “Time is the essence here, and the longer we wait, the better off we’ll be when it comes to taking our reward.” I say, as my cell phone buzzes obnoxiously beside me. I reach for it, everyone’s glares still glued to me. I open the message and read it silently.  
“Party at a friends place tomorrow night celebrating the big cash. 9pm, 4 Roads Av. Be there - frnk.”  
I sneak a smile before I devilishly look over the phone to the others, thanking Frank deeply inside for his impeccable timing.  
“Stage two gentleman, is in full effect.” I sneer, closing the phone, standing to my weak feet and slowly wavering over to my desk. “If you don’t mind, I would prefer to contemplate my next movements in solitude.” I say after two minutes of realizing that no one has moved, rooted to their spots by disbelief clutching at their toes.  
When the door closes, I breathe a sigh of relief. Their presence makes me feel as if I am stood in the cross hair of a hunter’s rifle, and I am the prized hare. I hope every moment that they see me that I will have a bush to scurry to, or a den to burrow into. So far, I have been unnaturally lucky.

 

  
****

 

  
As the day turns to night, and night turns to day, it occurs to me that I have had little sleep and very little food for the past few days. When I wake after two hours of sleep, a pool of dribbled whiskey sat in my lap, I decide the first port of call is to shower.  
After I step out of the steaming bathroom and change quickly into some jeans, rubbing my hair with a towel, I follow my stomach’s call and force myself to eat breakfast.  
The only real issue I find with the next stage of the plan, is that I cannot decide on what on earth I am supposed to wear to Frank’s party. I do not have much of an extensive variety, and I doubt all black is going to encourage socializing. This is going to be a close call, all through the night; at any point, someone could ask the wrong thing and I could end up in a lot of trouble. I will be careful, as I have been many times before.  
Besides, I’ll have Frank beside me the whole evening.  
Several texts arrive from Mikey, wishing me luck, telling me to call if there’s an emergency.  
I do not need to be babied by my own younger brother.  
After the clock hits eight thirty and I am still deliberating, I settle on a pair of black jeans and an old t shirt, taming my hair into a half presentable mop and taking one last glance at the apartment as I open the door, slipping through quickly before I change my mind.

I am fashionably late, as usual, and find myself stood outside of a large house, music blaring from inside and shadows of people falling through the windows. After the fourth knock, I contemplate leaving, when suddenly the door cracks open, bright, yellowy light spilling into my eyes. A tall man, slight stubble poking from his chin and a small spare tire sitting upon his waist stares down at me through black rimmed glasses, raising an eyebrow at me. “Do I know you?” He asks, leaning against the door. I shake my head, trying to look over his shoulder in hopes of spotting Frank.  
“No, Frank asked me along.” I say quickly, beginning to grow impatient. He considers me for a moment before standing aside, allowing me in.   
“One more can’t hurt.” I hear him mutter under his breath sarcastically. Resisting the urge to turn back to him and flash him one of my Bert Glares, I follow the sound of music and laughter, past groups of people clutching drinks and smiling. When I reach the front room, I am horrified to see the class of the place. People are scattered everywhere, dressed from slightly provocative to strip joint worthy. This cannot be the place, surely. I stand in the doorway, scanning the crowd, yet my eyes do not land on the figure I am hoping for. Instead, something else lays on me, a hand in particular, upon my shoulder.  
I turn, caught off guard until I relax at the familiar face.  
Frank stands, two beers in one hand, the necks balanced between his fingers and smiles at me, offering me a bottle. I take it with a greeting, returning his wide smile. “I thought you weren’t going to make it for a moment.” He says, smiling from the corner of his eye.  
“So did I, your buddy over there didn’t seem overly pleased to have me tonight.” I say over the noise, gesturing to the big guy that had opened the door.  
“That’s James, he’s just wary. God, I would be if I saw a skinny, black haired stranger at my door, asking to find someone I’ve known for years.” He replies, taking a swig of his beer.  
This small amount of information is enough to pique my interest, making a mental note of Frank’s words.  
“Who is he to you then?” I ask casually, sipping the cool beer. It has been a long time since I have drunk beer as cheap as this, and it takes a moment for my stomach to settle with the mixture of expensive whiskey and the new fermented yeast concoction. “A good friend, we met as kids. He’s almost like a brother I guess.” He says with fondness, as if the memories of his childhood are crossing his eyes right before him. I nod and glance at him, watching the way he crosses the hall and disappears.  
As long as he is not majorly involved in Frank’s home life, he will not be a problem.  
Even if he was, we wouldn’t find it hard to deal with him.  
“So what are you planning on spending said celebratory money on?” I ask, swiftly changing the topic of conversation, something I have become an expert at. Frank pauses and smiles at a group of girls who pass us through the door before answering. “I have no idea. I mean, I could be typical and just buy a big house, couple of nice cars, maybe a quirky collectors item here and there,” I instantly imagine the look on Bert’s face if I was to tell him this, knowing it would be right up his street.  
I hope that Frank is not as shallow as Bert.  
“But that’s not really my thing.” He says, turning his gaze back to the party before him. We are stood like wallflowers, brushing the fringes of the excitement yet not willing to make the crossover. “What would you spend it on?” He asks, turning to me.  
I look at him carefully, his question catching me out. I frown and think hard, does this require a lie, or the truth?  
“I would probably put it into a savings account or something, I wouldn’t know what to do with it all. Maybe spend a little on some good whiskey…” I say as I interrupt my tongue with more beer. Frank nods, considering my answer. At least it wasn’t a lie this time.  
Strangely, I was finding it much easier to be truthful with Frank, especially when it came to situations that could end up with me in a pair of handcuffs in the back of a police van. “I think I’ll probably just pay off the rent with it first.” He says wistfully, his expression pulled into an actors idea of conveying perfect thought. I bite my lip, hoping he isn’t planning on doing so any time soon.  
The truth is, I’m more concerned about getting money for everyone else. I don’t really have any need for it myself, my apartment walls are filled with as much abstract art as can possibly be, and I’m not the kind to throw lavish parties.  
Frank looks over to me before gesturing to the crowd. “I suppose I should try and socialize, this is my celebration after all.” He says, his expression blank. “You wouldn’t want to join me at all, would you?” He asks carefully, afraid I may deny his offer and turn away.  
But something about his look of pleading plays upon me, and I smile, walking alongside him to the mass of bodies swirling on the dance floor.

Drink after drink is offered to me, slipping silently into my bloodstream as the music becomes increasingly easier to dance to. I find myself pressed between two girls, both of them no older than twenty. The girl before me, her name escaping me but it’s something along the lines of “Jade”, is making an effort to get as close to my crotch as possible, which even when drunk I do not appreciate. She has long, dark hair that tumbles over her shoulders and tickles my skin when it brushes my arm. I attempt to step back, only to be blocked by the girl behind me.  
I am uncomfortable, sandwiched between an alcohol induced breakdown and an orgasm.  
I begin to try to squeeze out of their clutches, but the movements only seem to convince them to stay. I scan the room, feeling my palms begin to sweat and my head beginning to spin. As the girl before me leans closer, her cherry red lips drawing closer to mine, I feel a hand pull me quickly from her line of fire. Stumbling in the stranger’s grasp, I crane my sight to see Frank, yanking me along through the hoards of people. Quickly, I pull my arm from him, stopping him in his tracks. “What are you doing?” I ask, a slight agitation to my voice. He frowns.  
“Keeping you out of trouble.” He says. I shake my head.  
“No, how do you know I wasn’t enjoying that?”  
“Because from what I know, you like two things. And as far as I can tell, girls don’t come under either of those categories.” He says bluntly. I am astonished at his confidence; how much has he had to drink?  
“That’s not true.” I manage, my argument wavering.  
“Well would you rather me have left you there?” He argues back. I press my lips together, forming a tight line. He shrugs and turns away from me, disappearing back into the crowd.  
I couldn’t deny his argument, girls did not come into the equation. I had never been the type to just randomly fuck somebody and forget about it with a wash of alcohol the next morning. Sometimes I wished I was that person, just so that I could satisfy my body’s urges and desires, and silence my paranoia for a night or two. But I just wasn’t.  
However, Frank had been wrong about one thing. I liked more than two things, in fact, I was now certain, as I watched his small figure become immersed and swallowed up by the bodies of others, that I liked three.  
And he was definitely one of them.  
I race after him, grabbing his shoulder and forcing him to look at me. “Can we just get out of here?” I ask. His eyebrows furrow in a thoughtful way. He glances to the people beside him, who are laughing and drinking, ignorant to our presence. He nods, a small smile crossing his face.  
Confidently, yet with shaking knees, I lead us out of the party and into the kitchen, where the back door spills light out into the dark yard. I am the first to eagerly step out into the cool air and breathe a sigh of relief. Frank stands, leaning against the door frame, silhouetted to my eyes. “You’re probably the worst musician I know.” He smiles softly. I frown in confusion.  
“What musician hates parties?” He laughs, folding his tattooed arms across his chest. I shrug, reaching for a cigarette. As I puff out a cloud of smoke, Frank pipes up again.  
“Mind if I have one, I forgot to pick a carton up from the store.” He asks me politely. I sigh.  
“This is my last one.” I say apologetically. He nods and rests his chin in his hand, one finger pressed on his lips as his gaze turns away. Feeling guilty, I take one last drag before I offer him the cigarette. He smiles as he takes it, a twinkle in his eye thanking me.  
I watch the way he balances it between his lips, almost like a 1950’s movie star. He makes it worth his while, taking a long drag before exhaling, plumes of bittersweet smoke curling into the air. He hands me back the cigarette and I take it from him, holding it carefully.  
It feels weird to place it back in between my own lips now that his have touched it, but I cannot resist the nicotine, and slip it into my mouth.  
Strangely, it no longer feels weird.  
As I throw it to the ground, letting it slowly distinguish, I look over to Frank, who surprises me by returning my gaze.  
“I really should stay here, but man I’d love to just sneak home.” He smiles, a small laugh escaping from his lips. I nod in agreement, feeling myself yearn for the comfort of my chair and art. “Yeah me too.” I say shortly, scuffing my shoe against the ground rhythmically.  
“Actually, James has a spare room upstairs, if you fancy getting fucked up instead, we could probably crash there.” He suggests, raising an eyebrow in thought. I look over to him, questions racing. “Fucked up? You bought something?” I ask cautiously in case this is all just a trap.  
Frank shrugs and flashes me a small smile, which I am certain means yes. He turns his back on the outside and waits for me to find the effort to join him, following him back into the heat and airborne perspiration until we climb the stairs unnoticed.

The room is relatively small, a few pieces of recording equipment and an old synthesizer stacked on top of a bunch of busted keyboards and sheet music scattered everywhere.  
From this, I assume James is one of the friends Frank mentioned that like him to jam with them occasionally. After realizing that there is nowhere to sit, Frank slides himself down the wall and sits comfortably, legs parted slightly, on the floor. I join him, settling against the opposite wall so the we face one another. “Not too shabby Iero.” I smile as he pulls out a transparent packet, filled with grass. As he begins to roll a joint, I assess my current situation.  
I am sat on the floor with a man I have know for just over a week whom I plan to steal over one million dollars of his money from, and we are about to share a joint.  
And yet, I gladly accept my current position.

 

  
****

There is a distinct haze between us, the smoke thick and sweet, our voices low and slurred. I take another hit, slow and relaxed at last, letting the smoke tumble from my lips like a gaseous waterfall. Frank is slumped, legs spread wide and arms splayed by his sides.  
God knows where he got this shit from, but it’s strong.  
I’m not complaining.  
“It’s been forever since I smoked like this.” He mumbles from before me, which surprises me considering I was sure he’d passed out. I wish I could say the same, but the truth is that I cannot lie to him like that.  
Which is new.  
I pass him the joint, which he certainly does not need but accepts anyway. The light in the room keeps flickering, and is only just bright enough for me to see Frank’s hazy figure.  
Every time I see him, I seem to share more and more with him. First, I shared a glance, then a phone number, then a coffee, then a cigarette and now weed.  
I wonder, what is it we’ll share next?  
“You know, there’s something about you, Gerard.” He says, his voice deep and rusty. I remain silent, intent on hearing him pour his heart out to me like this.  
At least I haven’t had to suffer for it.  
“I’ve known James for years, longer than I’ve known most people. And you come along after a week and I feel like telling you everything.” He says, the smile on his face betrayed by his tone.  
“What do you mean by everything?” I question, breathing in the smoke that clouds our vision.  
“I don’t know man, just like, everything… Like...Do you know how long it’s been since I had a girlfriend?” He slurs, a stupid smile spreading across his face. I shake my head, caught up in his grin. “Half a year.” He says. I shake my head, taking the joint from him and taking a quick puff.   
“Bullshit.”  
“It’s true!” He says, laughing slowly and deeply, not entirely sure what is so humorous about the situation other than the fact that we are sat on the floor in dirty clothes and smoking far too much. “You know I kind of don’t miss it.” He says, his smile suddenly shadowed by a sad, watery eyed stare. “I don’t miss the bullshit, I don’t miss the fighting, you know?” He says, watching me carefully. I shrug.   
“What do you miss then?” I ask, avoiding telling him how little I had cared for relationships.  
Our conversation is losing coherence, which would make sense considering the amount of weed we have both inhaled, but I am still finding some kind of sense within it, and still intend to listen.  
He frowns and reaches for the joint, even though I’m certain that James won’t be too happy with the smell of the burning substance spreading through his upstairs hall. “The kisses mostly. I miss that, miss the way she’d smile before she wrapped her arms around me.” His voice trails off at the end, a small twitch from his fingers indicating these are memories that aren’t usually at the surface of his mind.  
“What I wouldn’t give for a kiss, you know? Just to last me long enough for another half a year.” He says, his eyes shining with the light from the ceiling.  
“I know what you mean, I wouldn’t mind either.” I admit truthfully. Our gazes lock for a moment, and I sit there, my thoughts in a distant place that I cannot seem to access. “How drunk are you?” He asks quietly, his gaze falling to the floor and then back to me. I shrug, not even entirely sure myself. "Okay how high are you?" He corrects himself. I give him a half smile and wobble my hand in the air. He nods.  
“Then you don’t think... it’s maybe a good idea that, well if the two of us both feel like we need that kind of thing that we should go looking for some poor girl who’s as fucked as we are?” He says, eyes searching for anywhere to look other than me. I frown, the alcohol and drugs in my system delaying my sharpness. I stand up, brushing down my jeans in silence, and wait for Frank to take to his feet too. As he looks at me and begins to walk away, I take one more hit before grabbing his shoulder, turning him back to me. “You’ve seen those girls.” I say, the light flickering slightly.  
I am unsure why I find this so significant.  
He nods and sighs. “I just want some kind of comfort Gerard, didn’t you hear? I don’t care who gives it to me.” He says, attempting to break my grip but I tighten my hands around his arm. He frowns as I tug him back. “What?” He says, agitation growing in his voice. My body seems to lose all connection with my mind as I find myself closing the space between us. Frank frowns at me until I silence the two of our minds by pressing my lips on to his, the taste of smoke and bittersweet drugs washing over my tongue. Instantly I recoil, confusion sweeping in. Frank stares at me through curious eyes, the two of us silent. I can’t find the words to apologize, blaming the alcohol, blaming the weed, blaming the incoherence of my thought process. “What the hell was that?” Frank mutters quietly, his voice gentle, as if he is stepping around my emotions that are littered on the floor as a minefield and the slightest change in atmosphere could set them all off on tip toe. Before I can cough out a sentence, he speaks again. “That’s not enough to last six months.” I catch his eye, surprised and yet dazed by his words. This time, it is him that closes the space, reaching up to touch his lips with mine again, this time with more desire and less shock. “Make it worth me missing out on scoring some hot chick downstairs, Gerard.” He says between gentle kisses, coaxing me into returning them.  
The drugs in my blood are getting to my head, and I find myself kissing him back, his lips parting slightly under the increasing pressure of our interaction. His tongue sneakily brushes mine and I feel my breathing hitch. Something in the grass is driving my head wild, taking the reign of a wild horse and attempting to hold on as Frank’s body presses closer to mine.  
Making six months worth of empty beds and lonely nights doesn’t seem to be as difficult as I had imagined.  
My hand snakes to his hair, fisting it and pressing my body into his, like a jigsaw piece. He backs up against the wall and sighs against my lips, something that gives me a whole new experience of emotion. I feel his hand reach for my back and I let him press me into him, lips only parting for sickly sweet air.  
“Whoever’s smoking in there better have a fucking good reason!”  
Instantly we part, and I stare at him breathless. My lower lip throbs from the intensity, the two of us standing, completely out of our heads, waiting for the other to make a move. Wordlessly, Frank opens the door to an agitated James, whose stern scowl lessens when he recognizes his friend. “Sorry James.” He says, brushing past him and leaving me standing, head clouded and heart racing under a flickering light with nothing to my name but a joint.  
It seems we shared a lot more than I ever thought was possible.


	6. Connection (Or Panic in Every Form)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow this chapter is super long.  
> They're probably going to stay that way too oops.  
> I realize I failed to mention the reason behind the name of this piece.  
> The story and some chapter titles are named after the works of the Chapman Brothers, artists that have caused mass controversy over their time and continue to inspire and also shock me. Their work is the kind of disturbing that only makes you want to look more, and the messages they give are executed with horrifying beauty. I recommend you check out their series "Great Deeds Against The Dead" and for those who want something more freakish, "The Rape Of Creativity" or "One Day You Will No Longer Be Loved."

My eyes are sore and sticky when I manage to prize them open, my ceiling slowly coming into focus. My head hammers, probably form the night before, and I force myself to untangle my legs from the thin sheets and climb out of bed.  
I am surprised that I made it home, considering I cannot remember much of the progression of the party.  
The only evidence that I attended is the sick feeling in my stomach that can only be nursed with more alcohol. I make my way from the bed, down the tiny flight of steps that raise the sleeping area from the rest of the apartment, and rub my eyes as I make for the kitchen.  
I notice that I have slept in nothing but my boxers and the T shirt stained with beer from the party, which would concern me, only there was no random girl in my bed when I woke up.  
I can therefore assume I have not broken any hearts or been between any legs.  
But for some reason, I cannot ignore the strange twist in my gut as the thought crosses my mind.  
As I quickly pour myself a glass of wine and stuff some bread in the toaster, I steady myself against the counter, fingers curled around the worktop.  
It’s been a long time since I attended a party and couldn’t remember what happened.  
In an attempt to retrace my steps and uncloud my memory, I take a long swig of wine and slip a cigarette between my lips.  
Something about the movement of my hands seems significant, like the cigarette I clutch holds some kind of memories. As I take a long drag, in the smoke I suddenly remember exactly what importance this holds.  
The memories instantly come flooding back and I bury my head into my hand, not sure whether it was out of instinct for the thump of a headache I am feeling or the atrocity of my actions.  
I conclude that it is a fair combination of the two.  
The only hope I hold now it to blame everything on how messed up I was, on how drunk, how high, how out of place I had been.  
But the problem was that I remembered it all, and that surely serves as evidence that it was entirely the fault of other substances.  
I reach for my phone, hoping to every omniscient being that there is not a message from Frank, especially one addressing last night. My heart races at the sight of his contact as the phone lights up, and I beg for anything other than a recount of the night before.  
“Feel like grabbing a coffee? - frnk”  
I heave a sigh of relief. Perhaps Frank has no recollection of our intimate crime; from what I can recall, he was pretty fucked up.  
I contemplate the thought of not going. If I wasn’t to go, firstly, that would be breaking the routine, and I’ve never really been one for change. The second issue is that Frank could sense that something is wrong, and if he does remember last night, I doubt he’ll want to see my ignorant ass again. It could ruin everything.  
But so could going.  
Who’s to say that he doesn’t recall everything, and that this is all a sneaky plan to twist me up even more, make the job even harder.  
The goal was simple.  
Get to know him, get the money, get out.  
That certainly didn’t include having him hanging off my lips when the two of us were high and lonely.  
But something tugged at my insides at the mention of seeing him again, like a noose around my windpipe tightening with each thought. I had a job to do essentially, and no matter what these premonitions made me fear, there was nothing I could do to change that.  
Opting to ignore my fearful thoughts, I tapped out a reply.  
“See you in ten.”

 

****

When I arrived at our meeting place, I was surprised to spot Frank through the glass, already inside and at a table, clutching a coffee. His back was turned to me as I walked in, nodding at the girl behind the counter, who over the past week had become accustomed to seeing me here and had made an effort to greet me with a shy smile every morning. Casually I seated myself before Frank, glancing at him briefly. His gaze was averted to his drink, and I noticed he had ordered mine for me in advance.  
“You look like utter shit.” I say, taking a sip of the warm, bitter beverage. He scoffs quietly and nods.   
“Yeah well I feel it too.” He manages, a small smile playing upon his face.  
“What do you remember?” I ask tentatively, the knot in my stomach twisting tighter and the noose around my windpipe constricting my breathing.   
“I had weed, you had cigarettes, someone got arrested.” He says, reeling off the very small list of images he recalls. Inside, I breathe a heavy sigh, thanking every god of every religion for this one lucky get off. “You?” He asks, drinking slowly. I shrug.   
“Not much more than you by the sounds of it.” I smile, feeling confident with my lie. “Was James pissed about the grass?” I ask, lowering my voice a little to avoid announcing to the entire store that we had gotten fucked up off our heads. Frank frowns slightly and shrugs. “Not really, I guess if it had been anyone else he’d have said something, but he just told me to ask next time.”  
“Next time?” I question, genuinely interested by this detail.  
“He has some kind of fantasy that I’ll want to attend every party the fucker throws.” He smiles knowingly.   
“Oh and you don’t?” I tease, the fear that I had felt earlier slipping away with ease.  
Frank shoots me a sarcastic scowl before the two of us break into a smile, conversation suddenly seeming much more comfortable. “So any advances on the ‘how you’re going to spend your money’ subject?” I ask as we begin to settle into our seats, our coffees halfway done.  
“No idea, though I definitely won’t be spending any of it on that grass, I was sweating when I woke up this morning.” He jokes.  
“Where did you wake up this morning?” I play along, faking a concerned look. Frank kicks me gently but enough to make me slide my legs back a little in reaction. The touch of his foot against my leg lingers before I force myself to think of something else. “Look, I know you don’t want to go to any of James’ stupid parties, and he’s trying to get me to go to another one on Saturday. I was thinking, why don’t you come over to my place? I’ve got an Xbox and a lot of beer and I’ll take anything over another party like that.” He says carefully.  
I answer faster than I had planned to.  
“Sure, I’m not busy.” I say, finishing off my coffee in one fell swoop. It occurs to me that I have agreed to go to the house of the man I had kissed after knowing him for just over a week, an event which I was currently pretending to not remember at all, and that surely that is a dangerous move.  
But I need the information, the others need the information.  
I concluded I would have to repress any memories or fears, it was the least I could do after the royal fuck up that kicked this whole brilliant plan off. The two of us make plans for the coming weekend before we part ways, as plainly as we had done every other time.  
What was the oddest about the whole situation was that Frank seemed totally keen and more than relaxed when it came to this arrangement.  
To observe the situation objectively, as I was attempting to do, it was nothing particularly odd. The two of us had become quite good friends despite our lack of personal knowledge, background and any agendas. But if I hadn’t noticed the way he’d blinked twice quickly, slightly faster than normal, when he feigned ignorance to the night before, if I hadn’t noticed the shift in his position at my question concerning his memory, if I hadn’t seen the subtle swallow before he spoke, maybe I wouldn’t have thought the way I did.  
Naturally, I should decline, I should find an excuse not to go. The portent feeling rumbling in my gut should warn me that this was not a good idea.  
And yet I agreed.  
Something made me wonder, as I strolled along, hands deep in the pockets of my coat, just what was it about Frank that made me want to ignore the hunches I had. Being the intelligent bastard I was, I trusted my sense of judgement as strongly as the Statue of Liberty stands. Yet after a week a few days of knowing this stranger, my brain had done a complete 180 degree flip, and seemed to be working on a different wavelength. What was the oddest about the whole situation was that Frank seemed totally keen and more than relaxed when it came to this arrangement.  
As I reach the corner of the street I hear my phone alert me that I had a new message. Glancing quickly, I notice it's from Bert.  
"Emergency meeting, my place, now." It reads simply. His messages of urgency always seem so serious, like the short, intense language will make the 'emergency' seem more critical and make we want to get there any faster than the comfortable speed I am already travelling at. But this time around, just for the sake of avoiding any more tension between the two of us, I pick up the pace a little as I divert from my original course and begin to make my way to Bert's house.

 

****

 

By the time I arrive the others have already been waiting for a short while. There are no raised voices or harsh looks, just a strange silence. I catch Mikey's eye, flashing him a questioning look. He shrugs, returning my gaze. The three of us are stood in Bert's large front room, Bert himself pacing at the far end. I watch as he drags his hands through his hair, growing more agitated with each step.  
An angry growl erupts from the his end of the room, making the three of us share a concerned glance.  
"The Louvre! The fucking Louvre!" He says, his voice strained and rising in volume.  
"What about the Louvre?" I ask as gently as possible, seeing as no one else seems willing to say anything.  
Bert simply points over to his laptop, which is open and lying strewn on the soft couch before us. Flicking between him and the screen, I approach it with caution, just in case he changes his mind. I pull the screen around so that I can read and gasp when I see it.  
The tab open is a news article, big, thick, black letters shouting out at me and accusing me instantly, making my stomach drop with fear.

**LOUVRE WORKS WORTH MILLIONS MISSING**

There's nothing tying us to this, I attempt to calm myself, but by now Mikey and Ray have sided me and are both staring in shock at the screen, which is not helping with the calming process. This shouldn't be a shock; at some point someone had to notice the missing paintings.  
But _millions?_  
They weren't worth that much, surely?  
We had planned it all, we weren't to take anything too excessive. We had only taken the ones that no one would miss.  
"This is bad..." I mutter quietly.  
"Keep reading." Bert growls. Swallowing hard, I do so, my eyes scanning the columns quickly.  
Certain parts stand out to me, particularly the section that reads... "Federal Agents were instantly on the case?" I read aloud. "The FBI are involved?" I exclaim, my sights snapping up to Bert. His back is turned, staring off into the large yard through the tall French windows.  
"They'll be on to us before we know it." He says, turning to me. "Don't you remember the last guy they caught who was smuggling art out of the country?" I stare at him blankly, I don't.  
"The guy had done it for years. Then he tried a big heist and they caught him after two months. The guy got life." Bert snaps, the fear in his voice setting me on edge.  
“What are we supposed to do?” Mikey muses, his face pale and stare locked on the screen.  
“What _can_ we do?” Ray comments, but holds no cockiness.  
The four of us, for the first time ever, are scared.  
“Let’s ask Gerard, seeing as he’s the one who came up with the brilliant plan in the first place.” Bert snarls, eager to start pointing fingers away from himself. I hold my anger together and begin to launch into my defensive speech, knowing that this cannot be my fault.  
“This is not the time to be arguing over whose fault it is!” Ray sighs, extinguishing our row instantly. “The point it, it’s public. Nothing is going to change that.” He clarifies, failing to comfort me any further. “The best thing we can do is clear out, before things get uncontrollable.” He finishes, nodding matter of factly at us. Bert frowns, the idea of displacing himself and having to leave behind all his precious luxuries toying with him. “No, what about the new job?” He says hurriedly, eyes darting between each of us.  
This, I have to say, I can agree with. We are already neck deep in Iero’s case, and things are certainly going to seem suspicious to him if I happen to just disappear off the face of the earth with no explanation or further contact.  
“There’s no way we’ve got time to finish up with Iero, this is urgent.” Mikey identifies. But already my brain is working away at an idea, the cogs turning in my mind and driving the astounding intelligence waiting for an opportunity to shine. “We could move the heist forward.” I suggest.  
This gains me a stunned look from everyone.  
“Are you crazy? You don’t even know where the money is!” Bert jumps in quickly.  
“I’m going over this weekend, he invited me.” I say. “If you’re really going through with it, this is the best chance we’ve got to get some extra cash and get the hell out of here.” Ray bites his lip nervously, contemplating my suggestion. “Goddamn you Gerard you’re always right.” He mutters, resting his large hands on his hips. “Do you think it’s possible?” He says, casting me a hopeful look.  
I think hard, weighing up the scenario in my head. There were more disadvantages than advantages, that was already clear.  
It was obvious that I had earned the trust of Frank, even if it had turned out in an odd situation. There was plenty of reasons we could be together, away from his home now.  
But I had no idea where he even lived, and of course where he was keeping the money. He may have even just had it directly transferred to his bank, in which case we were not going to get to it. A bank heist so soon after the Louvre would only pin more suspicion on us.  
But they still had little to go on, I reminded myself. As far as they knew, art was missing, and someone took it. There was still nothing to prove that we had anything to do with it all.  
Things had to be thought out, first of all we had to leave, there was no doubt about that. It was only a matter of time until something would arouse and then it would all be too late. We had to flee before it all got too serious.  
But where would we go? It’s not exactly like we have any international connections; I’ve barely left New Jersey, let alone the country.  
I look up at Ray and bite my lip in thought. “Get something together, Mikey you can help. Decide a date, a place, anywhere outside of Europe would be perfect. Make sure we’re leaving after two weeks from today. As soon as possible would be preferable.” I say eventually. Ray looks at me nervously before nodding in agreement. He has a good sense of judgement, even if it can be a little interfering sometimes. “Bert, you’re head of heist.” I say regrettably.  
I cannot be involved in the robbery, that has already been decided, and Mikey and Ray must stay ignorant to the whole thing, otherwise the authorities could pick up on their searches for foreign accommodation. Bert had to be the one to do this.  
If everything goes to hell, it will be him that gets the blame, and we will be free to escape without any trouble. As much as I dislike him and find his self indulgence completely degrading to everyone else, this is the last thing I would want.  
Bert and I had never really seen eye to eye, even as kids. But we were the best either of us were ever going to get, and we’d learned to put up with that. The backstabbing and general feud between us had grown so tiring and dominant of our friendship that it almost felt like without him, I would have no reason to be right all the time, nobody to prove wrong.  
Despite the hatred we harbored for one another, I didn’t want Bert to have to do this.  
But it was inevitable.  
He knew it too.  
Giving me a careful look, he nodded, his mouth staying tightly shut.  
For the first time, in a very long time, he hadn’t called me out. He knew exactly what was sitting, weighing his shoulders down. And he had accepted it.  
For some reason, that made me feel like I was worse than him.

 

****

When Saturday afternoon rolls around, and I finally roll out of bed, things have never seemed more dismal. The sky has clouded over, as if the pathetic fallacy could not have been more appropriate. I hadn’t spoken to Bert, or anyone, since our meeting mid week, which was probably better than discussing our situation.  
As I follow the directions on my phone that Frank has sent me, my nerves tingle with the idea of being watched. Being out here in the open air, with no coverage, knowing that the FBI are on to our crime makes me feel as if there is a sniper pointed constantly at me, and now I am exposed.  
Eventually I reach a short street lined with apartment blocks, most of them on the dying side of getting old, and stop in front of the middle block, fingers poised over the call button on the wall.  
Pressing my thumb on to the buzzer labelled with a peeling sticker, block capitals spelling “F. IERO”, I await a reply.  
A crackle spits its way from the speaker, muffled shuffling and breathing spewing loudly and incoherently.  
“Yes?” Comes a distorted voice sharply. Despite the buzz and unclear audio, it is unmistakably Frank.   
“Hey, it’s Gerard.” I manage awkwardly, feeling odd speaking to him through a small metal box instead of face to face.   
“Oh come on up.” He says casually, a buzzing sound informing me that he has opened the door for me. With a quick thank you, I slip into the lobby, making for the set of stairs and climbing, listening to my footsteps echo sharply against the off-white walls. An odd smell lingers in the stairwell that makes my nose wrinkle in disgust, but I soon learn to ignore it, passing wooden doors that are chipped, some of the numbers nailed weakly, slipping from their original place and hanging loosely.  
I stop outside number four, my calves aching from the seemingly colossal climb I have endured to reach the summit. Knocking gently with the back of my knuckle, I stand in silence and wait.  
The sound of footsteps draws louder and closer, making my heart beat rapidly. “Is it a burglar?” I hear, slightly muffled by the door. Smiling to myself, I realize the correct answer should be yes.  
Yes, I am a burglar. I intend to steal from you and leave you hopeless before I disappear and you wonder what ever became of me.  
“Something like that.” I manage jokingly. The door swings open, guided by the hand of a short, dark haired, smiling Frank.   
“Don’t touch anything of value then.” He smiles before pulling me into a kind embrace. I catch a scent of his clothing; cigarettes and washing powder blended together, making him smell like _him._ “Good to see you, come in.” He says, letting me go and standing aside to clear my path. I nod, smiling, and step inside, that smell of his cigarettes stronger than on him. I hear the door rattle as it closes, the metallic jingle of the chain as he pulls it across ringing in the air. “Welcome to the bachelor pad.” He smiles, passing me and gesturing for me to follow him into the sitting room. I obey, my eyes adjusting to the weak, yellowy light.  
The front room is relatively small; two couches sit, one pressed against the far wall and the other freestanding, facing the box of a TV in the corner. A knee high coffee table stands, obstructing the direct path from the door to the sofa, an ashtray and a collection of miscellaneous items piled on to it. The wood is dark and stained with rings from coffee mugs and pens, stories plastered on to its blank canvass to tell of its life. The carpet is tired and worn, the original greenish color faded in places where feet have eroded its bristles over time like the sea to rocks, breaking them into sand.  
Frank offers me a seat and I place myself carefully on one of the couches, knitting my fingers together and resting my arms on my legs. “Do you want a drink?” He asks, standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame and exposing a sliver of pale torso. I swallow and instantly break the gaze, nodding. “Yeah sure.” I reply, sending him on his way.  
Sitting alone, in the silence, I begin to search the room with my eyes, looking for anything that could give lead to the whereabouts of the money. I crane my neck, glancing behind me at the small space between the sofa and the large French windows in the back wall. Nothing but furniture and the odd pile of clothing litters the room, at least nothing worth anything to me.  
Frank soon reappears, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and two brandy glasses in the other.  
“Thought you seemed like a whiskey guy.” He says, setting it down on the coffee table and pouring two glasses. He passes me one with a smile before throwing himself down on to the other couch, sighing as he relaxes, one foot bouncing as he falls slowly into the chair. I take a sip, realizing obviously that it is nowhere near as expensive or as matured as what I am used to.  
Even so, I accept it gratefully.  
The sky is saturated with a pinkish tint, the setting sun looking larger and closer than it always did in the mornings.  
“So what’s the plan?” I ask, concerning our get together. Frank sighs from his chair and reaches for his drink.   
“Dinner's cooking currently, thought it' be good to maybe watch a movie, drink a little, hey maybe even jam later?” He asks.  
I force myself not to show my panicked expression when he mentions playing music, and instead smile encouragingly.  
“Sounds good to me.” I smile, slipping another mouthful of alcoholic confidence down my throat. Frank reaches for the TV remote on the table, thrusting it towards the box and hitting the on button. He flicks through the channels, the picture taking a good half a minute to warm up and become visible clearly, although the color is slightly off. “Anything you fancy?” He asks casually, taking another swig of his drink. I shake my head, observing the picture change as he briefly watches, and then changes the channel again. My throat is beginning to dry up, like a lake bed in the heat of the Californian summer, my chest growing heavy and tight. I focus on the screen, concentrating on the poor image quality rather than the high resolution situation.  
After a few moments, a smell creeps through the air, unpleasant yet familiar. I sniff quietly before turning to Frank. “What’s that smell?” I ask as politely as possible. He too takes a long inhale through his nose before his face drops and he curses quietly under his breath, flying from the chair and across the hall. “Ah shit!” He exclaims, and I follow him quickly into a tiny kitchen, the space only big enough for two people to stand side by side.  
Frank reaches into a steaming oven, smoke billowing from the door and causing him to cough as he opens it. “Fuck!” He complains, pulling a tray from the massacre inside. Closing the door quickly and sliding the tray on to the counter, he sighs.  
The two of us stand, staring at the charred remains of what was supposed to be a pizza. “I never was built for home economics.” He sighs, disappointment laced in his tone. I shrug.  
“Hey, I’m flattered you even cooked.” I smile comfortingly, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder briefly. He turns to me and smiles hopefully before staring back down at the blackened corpse of the food. “Takeout?” He asks.  
“Takeout.” I agree with a smile, and the two of us begin to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.

 

****

By the time the door buzzes, assuming it being the pizzas we ordered, the two of us have consumed enough alcohol to ensure that when we stand, we are slightly imbalanced and wobbly precariously. Frank manages to buzz the guy in and leans against the wall, awaiting his arrival.  
I sit on the sofa in the main room, surrounded by several bottles of various drinks and call out jokingly, “what if that one’s a burglar too?” Frank laughs lightly, which is enough to serve as a reply for me. He soon emerges, carrying two large boxes proudly.  
Setting them down on the table, we descend on them eagerly like vultures, sitting on the floor in order to simply be closer to them.  
It has been a long time since I have eaten this well, I realize as I stuff the third slice hungrily into my mouth. Frank seems satisfied with the food also, as he smiles when I offer him the next slice of the Hawaiian.  
Our feast is relatively short lived, however, as we manage to clear the entire two boxes quickly. Frank grins as he finishes, lying back on the floor and splaying his arms out wildly. “I am stuffed.” He musters, his voice raspy from the sheer amount of food he has forced down his throat. I grin as he turns to me, wiping a piece of sauce from the corner of his mouth. “And you know what? I think the best thing to wash that down with, would be another drink.” He beams, launching himself upwards and drinking straight from the bottle. I laugh as he pulls the bottle from his lips and tips an imaginary hat at me.

Before long, the two of us are cradling our own bottles, slouched against the coffee table, the light of the TV casting long shadows around the walls. Frank has managed to find some old movies from somewhere, and the two of us are slowly slipping into a state of dulled senses picking apart each scene half drunkenly.  
“There’s no way he’d ever be able to do that.” Frank slurs slightly, as the protagonist takes an impossible leap of faith and survives.   
“Wouldn’t be much of a good movie if he just went kersplat would it?” I reply, taking a swig of the whiskey in my hands.  
I feel as if I am simply at home, sprawled in my chair, drowning out the rest of the world and all it’s bullshit problems, only I am not alone this time.  
It is a comforting feeling to have Frank seated beside me, as careless and as interested in his drink as I am. It’s almost as if we mirror one another, yet actually enjoy the other’s company.  
All of the fears, the doubts I had beforehand seem to have been buried deep inside me, hidden to my mind and conscious thoughts, which I am highly grateful for. The last thing I want is to be sat on the edge, biting down my fingernails to the nerves with anxiety.  
Frank’s head lolls, his hair falling in untidy strands in front of his eyes. “I could totally do that.” He claims, pointing towards the screen. I shrug and laugh deeply.  
“Bullshit, you can’t even cook a goddamn pizza.” He chuckles quietly, the two of us sharing a breviloquent moment of humor before silence befalls us again.  
After a moment, Frank speaks again.  
“Gerard?” He asks, his gaze turned away from mine. I decide to avoid his too, watching the screen but not paying attention as such.  
“Yeah?” I say casually, setting the half empty bottle beside me on the floor.  
“Do you remember Wednesday night?” He asks, referring to James’ party I assume.  
Without having to think, or even worry, I reply.  
“Yeah.” I say simply, keeping my gaze trained on the TV.  
“So do I.”  
For a moment nothing changes, as if someone has not only hit pause on the TV, but on the rest of the world. My heart seems to take a short break, as if it too has halted under the words of Frank Iero. I swallow, feeling his gaze hot on my skin, like a poker being thrust closer and closer to me, sibilating with each centimeter it draws nearer. My mouth is instantly dry, words that I should be saying to rescue the situation withering away and evaporating in my head, leaving me speechless and discommoded.  
“What do you mean?” I ask, which is a senseless question. I know exactly what he means, and he knows it by the look on his face.  
Serious, austere.  
He remains silent, watching me carefully, waiting for the moment for me to admit everything. It was all my fault, I had been stupid, naive. I had let the drugs get to me, I was drunk.  
I was in the wrong.  
But I could not force myself to look to him, feeling more uncomfortable under his judgement than I had ever imagined I would.  
“Thanks.” He muttered quietly.  
Wait. What?  
Thanks? What did he mean thanks? Was I dreaming? Was this a hallucination?  
No, that was impossible, I wasn’t hallucinating. If I were dreaming I’d have pinched myself by now. What the fuck was I supposed to do? What was I supposed I say?  
“For what it’s worth, it made up for six months.” Frank muses, dropping the intense stare after realizing I will not meet it, and turning back to the television. I struggle for air, struggle for words as I attempt to stutter out a response, yet nothing but dry dust skitters across my tongue.  
The odd sense of disconnection returns, my mind separating from my body.  
Am I drunk? I am unsure, but the thrumming in my chest grows stronger with each breath and I cannot explain why, only that I am no longer in control.  
I cast my gaze towards him, this time staring him down.  
He meets it before I am ready, and suddenly the world hits play again.  
His expression is soft, yet a strange sense of curiosity washed over his gentle face. “What is happening, Gerard?” He asks.  
He is experiencing it too? This disconnection and loss of physical control? My eyes land on his chin, forcing myself not to look just a centimeter up. “I don’t know.” I almost cough out, the tension between growing irrevocably strong.  
“Whatever it is,” Frank almost whispers, deep and gentle. “I’m not sure how to stop it.”  
We are closer than before, and not just metaphorically. As if gravity is pulling me towards him, like a magnet, his breath falls warm on to my skin, suspended over my lips. We are too close, and not close enough all at the same time.  
His eyes dart to my upper lip, and I am suddenly gasping for air and an explanation as he leans forward, closing the space again.  
I have been here before, I have experienced exactly the same thing. I know how this turns out, and I am doing nothing to stop it.  
The sound from the television is no longer audible, and I question whether Frank has muted it or whether I am shutting it out as I allow my lips to part slightly, kissing him back.  
All of this is wrong, reckless.  
This was never supposed to be part of the plan.  
But something told me, something in my incredible brain instructed me to keep going. Stopping now would only break the trust I worked so hard to build, stopping now would ruin the chances of finding the money.  
Stopping now would spoil everything.  
So I kept going.  
A hand snakes around me, resting above my waist and guiding me carefully towards him, closer and closer.  
I let myself press close to him before I understand why it is placed in the small of my back.  
We must be closer. As close as two people can be.  
Ray had said to get to know him, and so I would.  
I pull away, only briefly, and stand up, glancing down at him as we locked eyes. Slowly, he stands to his full height, reaching just taller than my eye line. Wordlessly, our lips crash together, more violently than before.  
If last time was a wave lapping at the shore, this was a tsunami enveloping the entire bay.  
My hands quickly become animated, resting first on his arms before trailing down to his wrists. I feel fingers against my shoulder blades, pressing me closer. Breath is no longer a priority; anaerobic respiration will have to suffice for now. Frank forces himself closer, his hands now pressing against my chest and slowly slipping downward, settling above my thigh.  
In anticipation, my brain begins to whirr. As I root my fingers into his hair, he brushes his hand over my crotch, causing me to gulp for air and almost choke when none comes.  
Before he continues, he pulls away, eyes set on the large, French windows.  
“Not here.” He struggles, looking over to the hall.  
Instantly I understand, and the two of us manage to compose ourselves as he leads the way from the sitting room through the tiny flat and into a small, dark bedroom.  
There really is no need to close the door, but it feels better to do so.  
In the moonlight he stands, watching me carefully. Something along the lines of fear is plastered across his face, and I instantly feel guilty.  
“I’ve only ever done this a few times.” He gulps, turning to the unmade bed. He would probably think that it was untidy and rude, but to me it only seems more genuine.  
“I’m new to this.” I admit, which isn’t difficult to say. A sneaky smile creeps across his lips and for some reason it causes the thrumming in my chest to thump harder. Crossing the room, I collide with him, pulling us down on to the bed and kicking my legs free of the sheets. Nothing is stopping me from interaction. Nothing but layers.  
One. His hands tug at my shirt and without feeling self conscious of my unimpressive, lanky torso, I help him cast it aside.  
Two. My hands reach for his shirt, my cock beginning to press against my jeans. He pulls the shirt free revealing his ivory skin.  
Three. He tugs at my jeans, pulling me forwards as we manage to free myself of the skin tight clothing.  
Four. His are next to be outlawed to the floor.  
Five. Our foreheads press together slightly, his skin warm. His eyes dart over me, as if he is memorizing each curve of my waist, each outline of my torso, the imprint of my hard on. Carefully, he forces my back to lie flat on my back, devilish hunger eliciting a sharp intake of breath from me. Above me, he slides himself down, hands resting on the top of my underwear. Carefully, he tugs them down, my growing erection freed and now on plain view.  
He tosses them to the ground and holds my hips carefully.  
I watch him lower, down, down, down until his lips brush my cock.  
I force myself not to groan, because hell I want to. The rush that his teasing gives me is more prodigious than any synthetic drug high I have ever experience.  
His mouth closes around me and I allow a strained gasp to escape my lips. Frank begins to suck, and I reach out with my arms instinctively, straining for something to grip. When all I can find is the thin sheets, I fist them as if they are stopping me from drowning, holding me out of the rapid water. “Fuck.” I manage pathetically, as if no other word is on my mind.  
But no other word is on my mind.  
I reach one hand down to Frank’s head and grip whatever hair I can, groaning as his tongue traces me. I find my hips automatically moving to his rhythm, rolling upwards as he sucks.  
I moan quietly with pure pleasure until he moves away, stalking up towards me on all fours. He kisses me hard and traces down my neck, moving over my chest and sitting up.  
“Are you sure?” He asks, remembering that the two of us have both had plenty to drink. I nod.  
I know this is what needs to happen.  
Frank leans over to the bedside table, reaching into a drawer and removing what I only assume is lube. He allows me some time to adjust my senses as he applies it, but no sooner than I am prepared, he grips my hips again. This time, I can see him perfectly. He steadies himself before he reaches a finger towards my entrance. My breathing hitches as he pushes it inside and I writhe under the pain.  
But god the pleasure is unbalancing it.  
He begins to thrust his finger in and out, and I cannot contain the yelps I release like an animal.  
I am beyond the point of turning back, and before I have time to understand what my body is going through, I feel him replace his finger with something else.  
The pain comes first, a searing hot, strained, stinging pain that courses through my hips and knits my eyebrows together.  
But then my instinct to only feel pain as a defense diminishes and suddenly I am gasping with pleasure.  
Extreme, inexplicable bliss.  
His thrusts pick up a rhythm and my body reacts, gyrating to meet each pound, each incredibly strong drive of his cock into me. Frank evokes a libidinous groan and the rhythm suddenly speeds up, the time signature of our piece growing faster.  
“Fuck Frank!” I struggle, words turning into nothing but sounds as he fucks me, the two of us finally as close as physically possible.  
I refuse to give in this soon, and force myself to stay steady, grounding my mind and attempting to just relax.  
But how can I relax when this is my distraction.  
I have fucked girls, many times before. But this. This was as lusciously sinful as could possibly be, and yet it was brilliantly heavenly.  
I reach for my own cock and force myself not to yelp as loudly as I am tempted to.  
“Can I come inside you?” He manages, voice raspy and gravelly. I nod, unable to form words. The two of us begin to ride out the most intense and passionate three minutes of our lives. Every second I force myself to wait, to let him be the first to come.  
As we reach climax, I cry out in agonizing ecstasy, Frank copying. I feel him, the orgasm he experiences rippling through his body. Helping myself along only slightly, it doesn’t take long for me to come too.  
The orgasm rattles through my bones, reaching through my muscles and battering down the nerves like a hurricane. As I come, Frank pulls out, managing to collect some on his lower stomach, There is no embarrassment as I shake my way through the best orgasm I have ever experienced, and finally meet his eye.  
He falls on to the bed beside me, the two of us breathless and worn down. Frank wipes himself down on the sheets and turns his head to see me.  
“Whatever the hell this is between us,” I manage as he pulls the sheets over us, our heads resting on the soft pillows.”I’m not sure I want it to stop.” I say, and he smiles, leaning over and kissing the corner of my mouth. As he rolls over, his back to me, I find comfort in curling my body around his, so that we fit together like jigsaw pieces.  
Pieces that are finally united. As I glance over his shoulder into the darkness, my eyes lie on a safe in the corner of the half open closet.  
I smile to myself.  
Success normally comes at a price.  
This time, it had come with a reward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh things are heating up! I haven't had a lot of time to run through this chapter so if there are any little mistakes please let me know.  
> -GT


	7. Fragility

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is a day late but I had to go over it all one more time just to make sure I hadn't given too much away! You guys seemed to like the last chapter, and trust me, there's more of that to come. But for now, things are really looking dangerous for Gerard and the team, hope you enjoy!  
> -GT

The transition between unconscious sleep and conscious living is almost indistinguishable. In fact, if it wasn't for the unfamiliar smell that warned me I was not in my own bed, the cool air around my naked torso that was approximately two degrees colder than the cool air I was used to, then I would not have known that I was awake.  
Or that I was naked in a stranger’s bed.  
With a sigh, my eyes focus on the alien room, somewhat different in the light of day. I begin to mentally prepare myself for the poor, broken hearted girl I am about to sneak away and leave until I realize that my arms are not wrapped around the familiar curves of a woman, but instead a flat, warm, angular figure. I move from background to foreground with my vision to see a head of dark hair, tousled and untamed in a strip down the center of the skull before me.  
Instantly, my stomach drops.  
In disbelief and utter shock, I peak under the sheets covering us, only to have my horrors confirmed. We are in bed.  
Together.  
The consternation of the situation sets in as I feel my hands and forehead grow moist with perspiration. Frank is still asleep, I confirm, I can still get out of this.  
Slowly and delicately, I slide my arms from his body, rolling over in case he wakes to the absence of my skin on his. I take a moment, wide eyed and distraught, to collect myself. My clothes are strewn across the floor, scattered untidily. I can easily get them on in a few minutes, though I have never had to do so with a sleeping person in the room before, possibly already awake.  
Eventually, I swallow the risk and slink out of the bed, skin exposed to the buttery light of day spilling through the thin curtains covering the window. Hurriedly I struggle into my clothes, the crumpled, unwashed feeling giving me comfort and security. Once I am dressed, I begin to make for the door before stopping in my tracks. My eyes turn to the closet, open and inviting.  
I remember now, of course, yes!  
As I sneak over quietly, Frank sighs and shifts. Freezing, my eyes lock onto his face, praying his eyes do not flit open. He settles again, taking a heavy breath and relaxing back into sleep. My eyes linger for a moment, appreciating the soft skin of his cheeks, the way one arm is thrown over his chin, covering his lips, his eyelids closed peacefully.  
Tearing myself away in disgust, I turn to the closet and fall into a crouch position silently.  
The safe is wide, and relatively tall, reaching just past my knees.  
I have already figured that this is too large to just carry away quickly.  
The best way, I conclude, will be to empty the contents into a bag, something less conspicuous than a nearly meter high metal safe. There is only one problem with this.  
I do not know, or have any slight clue, as to what the combination is.  
I glance back at Frank, tempted to just try and heave it away. But this is foolish, and I know it. I cannot do this alone. I need a plan, I need an actual plan. Not a strategy or objective like before.  
I need a well studied, finalized to the last detail, to the last spec of dust on his bedroom floor kind of detail plan.  
And for once, I have nothing.

I understand of course that Frank will be under false impressions now.  
This is no longer a friendship to him, this is serious. Whatever he believes, I must convince him that I believe it too.  
This could be a huge mistake, this could ruin everything. If Frank is to realize my true intentions now, it would not just be emotion involved, but true trust. And even if he doesn't realize it, he still has to believe that I am as willing as he is to continue the way we did last night.  
In other words, this has suddenly gone from a harmless using of an acquaintance to the possible destruction of an entire life.  
It’s all my fault, of course it is. If I hadn't have been so drunk, so out of my depth, then none of this would have happened.  
I do not have any romantic or… sexual… feelings for Frank in any way, of that I am certain. I am riddled with disgust at myself, like tiny, dirty maggots crawling under my skin and through my veins, reaching for my heart. When I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror as I creep through the hallway, the figure that glances back is darker, filthier, his hair a tangled mess and eyes nervous, pupils dilated. He is fragile and deceptive, and does not stand worthy of having a name.  
But he does have a name, we share it.  
As I reach the front door, my eyes land on the refrigerator in the kitchen.  
Stomach growling, I give in and quietly slip a bottle of beer and an apple from the shelf. As I close the door, the cool, frosty air tumbling from the interior, I spot the small ‘notes’ pad attached to it. Several pages look like they have already been torn away, probably reminders. I feel a pang somewhere in my chest and realize that Frank will probably think me a bastard for just leaving. Dropping the stolen provisions onto the counter, I grab a pen left abandoned and scrawl quickly.  
‘Thanks Frank - G’  
It leaves me feeling less guilty and even more appalled at myself, but it’ll do for the sake of the greater good. Taking up the beer and fruit, I finally make for the door, taking a large, snapping crunch at the apple as it closes behind me, echoing through the apartment block and ricocheting against the walls.

  
The fruit falls towards me, now a thin, skinless core. Each time I catch it between my fingers, I take a bite, drawing ever closer to the seeds in the center. Lying horizontally on my back, hands poised, ready to receive the apple, I let my mind wander. Several messages alert me of my brother’s concern for my whereabouts the previous night, but I am choosing to ignore him.  
My behavior towards Frank has been atrocious.  
Am I really so uncontrollable when I am drunk? Do I really lose so much power over myself that I cannot function appropriately?  
So far, it seems that it’s true.  
But if that is the case, why can I remember everything? Why can I recall the exact temperature of his lips on mine? Why do I relive the sight of his bare torso exactly, able to picture each minimal feature?  
I know that I am a heavy drinker; I drink from the moment I wake up to the moment I pass out. Therefore I am aware of my inebriated personality, which usually does not involve me agreeing to have sex with a stranger, let alone a man.  
Crunch.  
Although, despite the extremity of my actions, I had achieved two things.  
One. I had not only gotten to know Frank, but I had established a strong trust bond. This was more than what we were going to need, which would put me a mile away from any suspicion in the future.  
Two. I had identified the location of our prize, and was attempting to formulate a plan to access it. As the thought ran through my mind, like a record on a turntable, it occurred to me that without doing the awful things I did, I would never have known where the money was.  
It was as if fate had stuck it’s foot out and tripped me over, landing me face first on to the pavement so that when I opened my eyes, I would see my prize that I would have previously missed.  
It had been a narrow window of opportunity, and I had taken it.  
This somehow made me feel better, knowing that what I did meant nothing, and in fact was a benefit to everyone.  
This did not mean, however, that the rest of the guys needed to know anything about this.  
We all have our secrets.  
My teeth finally scraped the tiny apple seeds as I snapped the last piece of flesh from the fruit, and with a heavy sigh, I sat up, tossing the core over the bed and into the small trash can beside it. I had nothing to worry about.  
Oh. Oh yes I did.  
A sudden epiphany hit me and my chest became tight, breathing becoming a challenge. I was a fugitive. How could I have been so distracted to forget? Every move I made now could be the difference between winning the game with all the cash or losing and taking home nothing. The street I chose to walk could be the difference between being caught or being safe.  
If even the smallest lead was made on me now, Frank wouldn't just know. He’d be out of town within a matter of minutes, money and beer fleeing with him.  
Weighing up the pros and cons, it turned out something like this.  
Gain Frank’s trust and the upper hand on the location of the money, but risk losing everything and more.  
I hadn't understood before, but now it all seems so clear.  
The only thing standing between me and success is Frank, and the only thing stopping me from ever being caught is also Frank.  
What I have done is simultaneously give myself an ally and an enemy.  
If I was to take the money and skip town now, he’d be the first to rat me out.  
But if anyone were to accuse me of anything, he’d be the first to take my side.  
And the best part is that everything has only just started to get complicated.

 

 

****

Bert has concluded that it is safer if we all meet on an alternating schedule. Meet one day, not the next, meet the following day, not the next.  
Much to my distaste, everyone else appears to agree as we sit in silence, staring into space and drinking whatever is in our gripped glasses. “I found the money.” I offer calmly, expecting a breakout of smiles and congratulations. Instead, I get a stony glare from Ray, a sad smile from Mikey, and an earful from Bert.  
“Where is it then?” He asks instantly, though his voice is flat and disinterested.  
“I can’t get to it.” I say, swirling the beer around in the bottom of the bottle. “There’s a safe, but I don’t know the combination. It’s in his flat.” I explain briefly. Ray groans with agitation.  
“Why the fuck are we doing this anyway? It’s not worth it, we have to just get out of here!” He blurts, earning a nod of agreement from Mikey. Bert covers his eyes with his hand, his fingers stretched to rest upon his temples. “Ray, things aren't as bad as what you think.” He says calmly. But Ray refuses to listen.  
“You can’t say that Bert, you don’t know what they've already figured out! For all we know, there could be a SWAT team headed our way right now.”  
“Or not, Ray. Things aren't going to hell yet.”  
“Well they’re not going to goddamn heaven are they?”  
Mikey’s voice erupts in a frustrated, angry growl, silencing the two of them instantly. “Will you two knock it off? Gerard didn't even finish speaking and you’re already fighting over how we’re going to get caught!” He snarls viciously. Ray casts me an apologetic look, yet Bert turns away, brow still furrowed with frustration.  
“I was just going to say that, maybe, we could just break into it, you know? I’ll get him out of the place and you can take a crowbar, a few sports bags, get what you need, then we’ll be out of here as soon as possible.” I suggest, knowing that I am telling them exactly what they want to hear. Ray seems to settle a little, looking a little more at ease, but Bert keeps his expression stiff, and gaze turned away from me. Despite my obvious authority in this group, it seems that the general policy is that whatever Bert says, goes. So the three of us watch him, waiting for an answer, or anything that we could take as answer at least, in silence. Eventually, he exhales deeply and nods, looking over at me. “Alright. When do I do it?” He says, exhaustion creeping into his voice.  
“Monday. I’ll draw you up some plans, find you an entrance and exit, all the usual stuff.” I say, hoping that it will make everyone feel more confident with less work on their shoulders. Turning to Ray, I ask. "Did you sort out somewhere to go?” He sighs tiredly and nods.  
“There’s a big penthouse for sale in Melbourne, Australia. Thought it’d be perfect. Enough room for everyone, not too expensive flights, hotel would be booked so we could make out we’re property hunting.” He says though there is no triumph to his tone. I thank him, giving him a serious nod to show my gratitude. I never considered how hard everyone else must be taking this, not that I totally care. We get what we have to do done, then we leave.  
Everything will work out, it has to.

With Bert’s confirmed participation for the heist and a good escape plan sorted, the only thing left to solve is the matter of Frank as a witness. Once Bert takes the money, he will notice, even if it’s not instantly. When he does, I have to make sure I am with him, there is no room to let him get suspicious. From there, it’ll be a matter of a family emergency, or a personal crisis that’ll cause me to flee. This should not be difficult.  
This won’t be difficult. I will not let it be that way.  
As we part ways, heading back to our respective homes, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket. I take it, holding it carefully in my hands as I read the message.  
“You’re welcome. -frnk.”  
I smile devilishly to myself, something inside me toying with my emotion towards him and suddenly I feel like the criminal I actually am.  
And I’m enjoying it.

When my door clicks closed and I toss my keys on to the small table beside me, my feet making loud, metallic clicks against the steel stairs, I feel myself relax slightly. As I collapse into my chair, I reach for the TV remote, switching it on and leaving it on the main channel. The audio is quiet and I pay little interest to the screen, instead reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels at my side. I take a swig, swallowing hard and instantly regretting not eating enough as my stomach growls tiredly. Ignoring the basic signal for food, I slouch further down into the soft fabric, eyes scanning the room and the paintings on the wall. As I lock eyes with one, my ears pick up on something. I turn back to the TV and reach for the remote, turning up the volume. A young, blonde woman in a black suit is addressing the camera, expression solemn and serious. I strain to understand her, listening carefully.  
“Our top story tonight, Federal Agencies have discovered the Louvre to be missing several highly valuable works of art, and claim that they have good leads on their investigation.”  
A small picture of the gallery appears beside her.  
Oh shit.  
Hurriedly, I text the guys to turn on their TV’s, just so that I know I am not riding this out alone. I beg for her to stop there, but the story goes on.  
“Special Agent Harker told the press that DNA analysis was carried out upon an explosion site where the culprits are believed to have entered the underground basement. Other analysis of Security tapes and chemical compounds within the site show that that the culprits are likely to have come from the US, specifically the West Coast area. Currently, Federal Agents believe states such as New Jersey and Delaware could be the prime location for further clues.”  
My heart skips beats irregularly, my chest begins to constrict with lack of oxygen.  
They’ve pinned it to Jersey already, bullshit that they suspect Delaware. They’ll be on us sooner than I thought.  
This is seriously bad.  
How did they find out so fast? Hadn’t we been careful? Hadn’t we done everything right? There was nothing that we had missed, we had meticulously planned everything, down to the color of our socks and how many breaths we were to take.  
Yet they’d got us, already.  
There was no going back now. We had to be out of Jersey, out of the US as soon as possible. If they even catch on that we have anything to do with this, everything will be destroyed. I glance at my phone, seeing a message in the green of a speech bubble from Bert.  
“We are dead.”  
Not yet, I say to myself because we aren’t. Not yet, we are not going to fail, this has gone too far for us to get caught now. Not yet, not yet, not yet. Just two more weeks, we can hold out for two more weeks and I know it. We have done it all, from bank robberies to jewel theft, drug raids to art heists and I refuse to be caught now. I refuse to go down like this, without my dignity, without something else to hold to my name. I’m going to pull one more robbery, one more brilliant deception with the three men I have only ever cared about, the three men that have stolen everything I stole and more, the three men that have formed a society so unbreakable that the only way we’ll leave is to go to hell or further.  
I’m going to rob one million dollars, and I’m going to get the fuck away with it.

 

 

****

  
Sunday consists of a lot of pacing, an equal amount of stressed growls and several screwed up pieces of paper. Bert is relying on me not to get him caught and to also get him exactly what he wants, which is of course his precious green bills.  
Eventually, I formulate a plan, and instantly inform Bert. At first, he comes across as apprehensive, but I am always right, everyone knows that, and so he eventually agrees. I then text Frank, asking him to meet me tomorrow at the coffee shop in the morning. Within three minutes he agrees. There is something very satisfying about having him curled right around my little finger, twisted into the exact way that I want him. He plays his part excellently, even I’ll admit, he never fails to let me down.  
I avoid the TV and the internet completely deliberately, unable to risk seeing anything more on our suddenly very public heist. I actually catch up on most of the sleep I have missed for the last week or so, falling in and out of contrast with the world. When I wake to see that the sun has only just passed it's midday mark, a strange sense of time washes over me, like the time I spend sleeping is time that I am free being wasted, simply thrown away to the basic need of the fatigued mind. Yet I allow myself to drift back off after a drink and a quick snack of slightly squishy orange. I have a confidence in my plan that I haven't felt before; of course I had felt confidence in my other plans, but this one was different. It felt as if there was nothing to stop the success of this idea, unlike many other plans, which were brilliant, but always left me slightly anxious. After enough time contemplating my ideas, I slipped back into unconscious thought and relaxed into my sheets.

_The hallway was dark, a lonely string of light dangling through the door at the far end. Stepping carefully, I moved towards it. I knew this hallway, knew the width and height, knew the owner and proprietor. The small things that indicated it was his were dotted everywhere; the notepad from his refrigerator lay on the floor, a guitar and a shirt. Hair dye the color of his dark locks lay strewn in my path, and my heart fluttered as I reached his bedroom door. Pushing it open delicately, I peered inside. To my surprise the room was empty, like it had been abandoned last moment. In confusion, I moved over to the center of the room, taking it in full circle, a whole 360 degree view._   
_Suddenly, I paused at a faint noise._   
_Something here was wrong, very wrong._   
_I whipped around to see the safe, open and empty on the bed._   
_“Don’t touch it Gerard.” Came a familiar voice. Turning my body slowly I locked eyes with Bert, who was stood dressed all in black, his hands bleeding through his dark gloves. “Why?” I asked quietly. Bert’s hands shook as he pointed towards the safe, little droplets of crimson dribbling from the fabric and dripping on to the floor._   
_“They know Gerard.” He said. Astounded, I reached for the box, Bet’s warning repeated over and over, louder and louder._   
_Don’t touch it!_   
_My hands lay on the cool metal, the feeling somehow comforting. With a smile, I turned to him. "See? It’s fine.”_   
_But before me was not Bert._   
_It was Frank._   
_His face was plastered with horror and fear, eyes wild with disbelief. “What are you doing Gerard?” He cried, his voice rising in volume. “How could you take it?” He screeched, causing me to instinctively press my hands to my ears but oddly, they felt wet. I stared down at them to see blood running down my fingers, coating my hands with a paint of gruesome red. “Wait!” I said as he moved away from me, backing further towards the wall. “It was Bert! I didn’t take it!” I said hopelessly, but tears of terror were streaming down his face. As I took a step toward him, the door smashed against the wall and in shock my head whipped around. Men dressed in dark blue and black came flooding into the room, grabbing at me, shouting to one another as I struggled from their grasp. “NO!” I cried as they seized my wrists, the blood tracing lines like brush strokes down my arms. But the more I shouted, the tighter they held me, hauling my body like a rag doll from the room and casting me to the ground._   
_They pointed guns at me, at my head._   
_The took aim._   
_They fired._

Jolting awake, I gasp for breath, sweat pooling on my upper lip and dampening my clothing down my spine. Stuck somewhere between the reality of the real world and the horror of my dream, I grip the bed for support, forcing my head up to glance at the time. It is late Sunday evening, only a few moments until midnight and therefore only a few hours until the heist. Spreading my fingers through my damp hair, I instantly oppose returning to sleep, and instead struggle to stand up, making my way down and onto the main floor of the apartment. I flick on a lamp, the light just enough to provide comfort but not enough to tear me from my fragile state too quickly. I pad over to the kitchen and run the tap, holding a glass underneath and bringing it to my dry lips, downing the whole thing in one go. Crumpling my shoulders up to my ears, I spread my arms apart on the counter and sigh deeply, bare feet growing cold on the tiled floor. With every ounce of physical strength, I rip myself away from my supports and wobble a little before standing steadily. As my eyes begin to adjust to the cloudy darkness, I can almost feel the fatigue creeping into my bones, and I instantly home in on my chair, creasing myself into the comforting softness of the fabric and closing my eyes only briefly. I feel myself calm down after the aftermath of the nightmare and relax a little, letting my body take on a weightlessness of rest as I quietly wait out the night until the rise of the sun.

 

 

****

When the soft light of morning trails through the windows, and my eyes that I did not intend to stay closed fly open, I unfold myself from the chair, cracking my back and twisting my neck a little from the stiffness of sleep. Today is a big day.  
I can only assume that Bert is feeling as anxious as I am, although his job is much harder than mine. The next forty five minutes I spend showering and eating, simply because I know I will not get the chance to later.  
If everything goes to plan, things should work out fine.  
I run through everything I told Bert the night before, finalize everything perfectly in my head as I impatiently check the clock. When I decide I cannot stand to sit in silence and wait any longer, I leave the apartment, making sure to leave my front door unlocked.

As I approach the coffee shop, I pull out my phone, texting Bert quickly and simply the phrase ‘you should try this coffee.’ The key to this is that if anything ever does come around on our heads, no one will ever be able to understand that this is code for ‘go steal all this guy’s money’. And Frank will serve as my accomplice, as he can definitely vouch for the fact that yes, I was having coffee, and Bert should definitely try it. As I step into the shop, the girl at the counter flashes me a look as usual, only this time her eyes prick against my skin. It feels like everyone is watching me, like I am a dying mule and the vultures around me are hungry.  
Frank is sat at a table in the corner, back turned to me and small figure hunched over a cup of coffee. Smiling as I approach him, I sigh as I take a seat.  
He has ordered my coffee again.  
“Hey.” I say cheerily, confidence rising inside me when he smiles back, pale cheeks warm with color.  
“Hey, you okay?” He asked, his voice smooth and gentle. I imitate his tone as I relax back into the seat.  
“Never better.” I reply, which is true in a sense. Yes, I am feeling much better than a few days ago, and I am surely not as nervous as the many meetings we have had before. But at the same time, there is every possibility that someone in here knows exactly what I am doing and that I am going to be arrested at any second. Then there is the chance that Bert gets caught or fails to get the money, which makes me very nervous.  
But sat before him, his gloved fingers curled carefully around the cup to warm them, yet not pressed against the porcelain to burn them makes me feel confident. He is safe, and Bert is as far as I am concerned. Frank is sat before me, serving as my ally without even knowing it.  
There is a strange sense of division between us, though it doesn’t affect Frank. The realization of what I am technically doing has hit me, and it is overwhelming. This small, young, smiling guy is about to lose everything, his life is about to go to hell, and it’s all because of me.  
Normally, this would be exhilarating to think of the sheer amount of power I have over such an insignificant human being, but it doesn't feel the same today. This time, it leaves a sour taste in my mouth, as if the coffee has burnt a permanent sore on to my skin and all I can taste is the metallic aroma of blood.  
Attempting to launch us into conversation to break the ever growing thick silence, I smile at him. “So uh, Saturday.” I say, sparking a mischievous grin on to his face.  
“Yeah, what about it?” He teases, squinting his eyes carefully.  
He’s playing me like a kitten with a ball of yarn, and he’s good at it.  
I counter his playfulness with a smirk of my own. “Oh come on, don’t you remember?” I muse sarcastically.  
I surprise myself at how good I am at feigning interest in him as he smiles shyly, leaning back in his seat. For someone who is doing this simply for my own benefit, I am shockingly good at pleasing Frank too.  
We end up chatting small talk, avoiding the details of Saturday for my peace of mind and his public decency, though that is never clarified aloud. While we pretend that everything is normal, as it should be, I anticipate a message to buzz through on my phone. I feel more nervous not knowing how Bert is doing than if I was to know he was in deep shit. Time crawls by, dragging it’s aching hands around the clock face slowly until Frank casually announces it’s time he left. “I really need to get some grocery shopping done, I mean, I’m living on takeout!” He chuckles, but my heart skips. What if Bert is still there when he gets back? Or worse, what if Bert has been caught? I cannot hold him here any longer, he’ll get too suspicious of me. I nod and smile, telling him to be careful on his way home, which is code for please don’t go back yet, though he doesn’t know that. As we part ways, he flashes me a small smile and I return it; the flirting should be horrid to me but I seem to get some kind of sick thrill from it. I pull my phone from my pocket as I walk swiftly down the street and call Bert instantly.  
He picks up on the second ring.  
“Where the fuck are you?” I hiss into the receiver. His voice is nervous, worried.  
Something has gone awfully wrong.  
“At yours.” He says, breath short.  
“Did you get it?” I ask slowly. There is a long pause as I cross the street, my apartment only three blocks away. Bert finally talks, something between worry and shock in his voice. “You are not going to believe this.” He says, and hangs up the phone.  
Despite my careful plan to stay inconspicuous out in public, I break into a sprint, hair and coat flying back as I charge down the street, determined to reach Bert before anyone else.

My hands grip the door and fling it open, sending it crashing against the wall. Standing on the small platform above the penthouse, I see Bert pacing nervously by the TV. Slamming the door closed, his head snaps up, his panicked eyes catching mine. I fly down the staircase and pant as I slow down, gripping his shoulders tightly. “What happened?” I stress, watching him squirm hesitantly. “Take a look.” He whispers hoarsely, pointing to the black bag at his feet. Afraid that he is hiding something horrifying, something life threatening in there, I step towards it cautiously. Bending my knees so that I crouch before it, I reach for the zip, my breath bated as I drag it along. Preparing myself for the worst, I close my eyes.  
When the zip can go no more, I peak apprehensively.  
It’s empty.  
Frowning, I throw my hand into the bag, feeling around in case there is something I cannot see inside but all I touch is the tough, cold fabric.  
It is empty.  
“There was nothing in it Gerard.” Bert says shakily from behind me.  
“What?” I breathe in shock.  
“The safe Gerard,” he clarifies and suddenly I realize what he means, why this is so jilting, why this is more terrifying than finding something other than money, why this is more fear provoking than being caught.  
The safe was empty.


	8. The Disasters Of War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay again! The likelihood that the uploads will be on time for the next few months is not great, so if you want up to date info on when it'll all be sorted just follow my twitter page - https://twitter.com/Get_TwistedOff

My hands are pressed on the exposed brickwork, the sandy grains coming away at my hands as my fingers press into the small cracks and bumps. I sigh quietly, my head held down and resting against the wall, hair catching on the rougher parts. “Are you saying it was a decoy?” Bert asks from somewhere behind me. Motionless, I reply with a strained yes.  
This plan has very quickly gone to hell, which is not the way I wanted it to go.  
There were questions that needed to be answered, and lots of them.  
Firstly, why did Frank have a safe filled with nothing? It was perhaps obvious now that he’d just had the money transferred into a bank account, but then what would be the need of that safe?  
Secondly, if it was a decoy like I feared, what would be the use? The real puzzle here is why Frank would believe he needed a fake safe, especially if he is not planning to use the money in an outright way - nobody would even know he had the money. In fact, the only person that knew at all in any detail was…  
Me.  
That was probably the most disturbing factor, even though there was no way that Frank could know anything about the greater plans I had for him. I began to try and fit an explanation to the situation; perhaps it was an old safe that had come with the apartment, that he maybe used for other things. I quickly debunked this, who would ever need a safe that big for anything small and everyday? The next logical option would be that perhaps Frank was afraid that people like me would break into the flat after they heard of his new fortune, trying to seek out any remains of the winnings. Despite this being the best and clearly most reasonable explanation, I cannot shake the feeling that this is something much more serious.  
Its almost as if the whole case was a trap designed to trip me over, show up a flaw and give away something I shouldn’t have.  
But that’s impossible, Frank works as a musician, he could barely afford to keep a roof over his head before all of this. Coincidence had brought us together as far as he was concerned, chance had determined our meeting, there was nothing more to it.  
This was getting me no closer to the answers I was looking for, but I had established this.  
We are not the only ones with dark secrets.

Bert perches on the edge of the small couch, his fingers loosely strung together in a criss-cross pattern in his lap, his upper body leaning over himself as if he is about to be sick. I offer him a beer, which he accepts gratefully. I refrain from slipping into my chair; I am on edge and fear that if I sit down an electric shock will rocket through my nervous system and force me up again. So I stand, feet spread shoulder width apart and arms crossed over, waiting for one of us to break the silence. Mikey and Ray have been informed prior to the laconism now saturating the air around me of the issue that has cracked our protective surface, and now all that is left is a sickening, paranoid stillness that seeps into my skin and chills my bones.  
Both of us are waiting for the other to ask the question that we’ve been forced to comprehend; what do we do now?  
My eyes rest on Bert, the enthusiasm he had emanated when he first suggested our brilliant new plan sapped and dwindling from him, leaking out of his pores and pooling on my floor. He was forcing himself through more than his body could take, we all were.  
It will only be a matter of time now before we all crack and shatter into tiny shards. This is not the kind of set back we can ignore and work around like others we have encountered on heists. This is now a huge obstacle and there is a very narrow gap between it and being caught that we can squeeze through.  
“This has to stop.” I say quietly, watching the hand of the wall clock tick around, like it is a timer for our ultimate doom. Bert’s head sinks between his knees, hands hooked through his hair and gripping his skull. “It can’t.” He whimpers. “It never will.”  
His shoulders buckle and has a sharp intake of watery breath. Raising his head to look at me, red blotches around his eyes are evident, salty tears rising. “We are fucked. He’ll know Gerard, and when he does, they’ll be on to us like hounds on foxes.” He struggles, pressing his lips together to force back the cry.  
“We can still get out of here -”  
“You think we can just run away? This isn’t going to just disappear once we’re gone, Gerard! We could go half way across the planet, hell, we could go to a different planet, and this shit will still catch up with us. It’ll follow us like a wolf tracking its prey.” He cries, panic manifesting as the water threatening to overflow and spill down his cheeks. “We have to finish this.” He breathes nervously. “We have to finish it and we have to get the fuck out of here.” I watch him in astonishment as he stands and turns to me, legs unstable and balance unsteady. “We’ll hack his bank account, we’ll use the same software we did for the Louvre’s security. Transfer the money, get rid of the evidence, and clear the fuck out. All you have to do is get his credit card.” He says. The silence of the room has been absorbed by my tongue, and I cannot form words. What Bert is suggesting is madness, horribly dangerous and beyond risky.  
But for once, he is right.  
I lock eyes with him and nod, breath coming short and sharp as though I have been running. One last job, that's all he’s asking of me.  
Yet it’s an ask I shouldn’t be agreeing to.

I apprehensively text Frank once Bert has left, suspicious of every word I type. As casually as I can muster, I suggest the two of us meet at the record store in town the following day, where I forgot only briefly that I allegedly ‘work’ there. He agrees swiftly without any mention of the safe. I hope that this is because he hasn’t discovered it broken into rather than him deciding not to mention it at all.  
Surely he would tell me when he knew, he trusts me.  
The whole process has taken much longer than any other job we’ve ever taken on. Normally we are smart enough to make it a get in, get out kind of crime. But this has been a risk, the biggest risk we’ve taken. We are giving up our entire lives just to stay safe, just to get out of being caught. I’ve never left Jersey; I was born here, raised here, and goddammit I plan to die here too. Life had never dealt me a good hand, never payed me out for my small successes or recognized me for my bigger ones. Yet along comes a job in which I discover I am not who I thought I was before and all of a sudden I’m ready to throw away my entire existence to risk one more go.  
One more chance to lay my eyes on him again, one excuse to have him here and have me in control of everything. The dramatic irony between him and I was huge; he was completely ignorant to my plans. I was the puppeteer, the ringmaster, the leader of the events that were to play and he was nothing but a victim.  
Though in light of recent events, could the same still be said? The unawareness that Frank held beforehand was beginning to crack, and underneath was a deep, dark secret that was keeping me from being caught and stopping me from leaving.  
Yet something else was stopping me from leaving, something that was buried underneath the charade of normality I had cloaked myself with, and every so often is rustled itself up, distorting my senses and making me question myself. This, despite all the risks and dangers surrounding me, regardless of the consequences I faced and the pressure my friends were being put through, despite everything else.  
This is what scared me the most.

****

The following morning is peppered with the feeling of anxiety as I make my way, paranoia rife within me down the street.  
It even feels like the sun is following me as I dip my head down and avoid eye contact with everyone who passes me for fear that they know something that I don’t. The record store is no less than a few more blocks, and I can feel my feet growing eager to run the last few hundred meters. Forcing myself to maintain a steady rhythm as I walk briskly past a group of young girls, I pull the door to Randy’s Records open forcefully, slipping inside with great obviousness.  
The store, which I had spent many Sunday afternoons browsing in my teenage years, has not been modified it seems, since it was first built fifteen years ago. The walls are a fading, sickly cream and the carpet is so worn that in some places you can almost see the wood underneath. The door creaks loudly as if it is crying out in pain with its arthritis riddled hinges and the ceiling is slightly bowed and tired, like the curved spine of an elderly man.  
But the familiar smell, the colors of the LPs and the gig posters pasted on to the walls give the whole place a comforting feel, like going home to your favorite meal being home cooked for you. I stroll carefully in, my feet causing the aching floorboards to groan tiredly under my weight. I scan the shop for Frank and spot him, hands in his pockets and shoulders raised up to his cheeks, scanning the shelves. As I begin to move closer, something piques his interest, and his fingers dart across the tops of the records.  
Clearly he is a regular visitor to places like this. His posture is slightly bent over the covers in order to read them, the way his eyes scan the covers quickly but effectively, the way he never leaved a record to hit the other as he pushes it forward to read the other, instead guiding it with his fingers gently. As I reach the counter, a cough comes from beside me.  
Tearing my watchful eyes from Frank, who is still oblivious to my presence, I turn to my right. Behind the counter is a young woman, crude oil colored hair teased into pigtails that give her a cartoonish look. Her dark brown eyes are lined with subtle make up, the mascara slightly clumped at the edges and her lips glossed with a daring red lipstick. She smiles widely at me from behind the desk, dressed smartly yet casually in a striped shirt buttoned over with a black denim jacket that’s decoration includes several unnecessary zips and a sewn in ‘sniper’ emblem at the neck. “Can I help you sir? You seem a little bemused.” She asks softly, voice level and gentle. I glance back at Frank, who is unbeknownst still to my arrival in the store, and turn to her.  
“No thanks, but I do need to ask a small favor.” I say hushedly. The clerk narrows her eyes with a smile and leans closer.  
“What would that be sir?” She asks carefully. I play my request off with a smoldering grin.  
“If it is to come up between myself and the man stood at the back of the store with the dark hair, I work here.” I say, leaning closer so that I only have to whisper. The girl laughs shortly and nods. “Alright on one condition.” She teases quietly. Already growing tired of the embarrassing flirtatious tone, I force myself to listen. “You don’t leave unless you buy something.” She says matter of factly.  
Not such a bad request, I’m not exactly out of pocket.  
Nodding and flashing her a thankful smile, she calls me back for one last time.  
“I’m Lindsey.” She says casually. “Thought that’d be useful if you’re going to ‘work’ here.” She grins, making small speech marks in the air with her two index and middle fingers. Blinking with a small smile, I reply. “I’m Gerard, nice to meet you Lindsey.” Nodding as I turn away, hand sliding from the counter. I feel her curious, wandering eyes upon me as I head towards Frank.  
It was becoming much easier for me to just tell people of my true identity. Why this was the case was beyond me. Perhaps I had lost all regard for my own safety considering the amount of trouble I was already in, and so in the end it was simply not worth trying to hide anything anymore.  
Maybe that was a good attitude to have, who knew.  
Frank doesn’t look over at me as I take his side, continuing to browse the music. Watching him briefly, I mirror his actions and begin to look for something I can hand Lindsey that won’t cost me too much. “Ah cool, Black Flag.” He says under his breath, lifting a copy of ‘Slip It In’ from it’s resting place and holding it carefully so as not to leave any smudges on the artwork. I smile and exhale through my nose; a silent laugh at his interest in the music.  
“You should get it.” I say, eyes glued down at the records. “Black Coffee is a great one on there.” I comment, lifting a Beastie Boys record up before replacing it. Frank turns the large LP over his his hands and smiles. “I didn’t know you liked Black Flag.” He says, finally addressing me. With intentional secrecy, I return the comment.  
“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” Smiling knowingly to myself, I look up and turn to him. “Do you think they have anything from the Misfits in here?” He looks up, eyes watching me carefully and I know the reason why.  
Suspicion.  
He points behind him at the other shelves. “Think I saw some over there.” Frank answers shortly. I frown questioningly at him as I brush past him, finding the ‘M’ section of the rather unkempt shelving. I begin to file through until I rest upon ‘American Psycho’, and take the sleeve from the grip of the rest of the albums. “What have I done?” I ask him, but refuse to turn to meet his gaze. It’s obvious that he’s brooding over something, and the likelihood that it is the broken safe is rather large. The question is, will he tell me?  
He sighs before he joins my side, the Black Flag vinyl swinging in his grasp. “It’s nothing.” He mumbles, watching me read through the tracklist on the back cover.  
“Bullshit.” I say simply and decide that five dollars is more than reasonable for the record. My eyes turn to him and he looks away from me, biting his lip nervously. “Frank.” I prompt him, observing him mentally battle with himself as to whether he is going to tell me the truth or not. “It’s just… I’m sorry, about the other night.” He says, launching into an apology.  
Wait, an apology?  
He was regretting it? Of course, I was not particularly pleased with the unholy act the two of us had endured, but I wasn’t going to apologize, and certainly not in public. I stare down at him until he meets my gaze, something else hidden behind the mask of apologies, but I chose to ignore it for now. “We were drunk.” I clarify, and turn back to the album. “I’ve never apologized for anything I’ve done drunk.” His gaze flickers to his feet in disappointment with himself, and I leave a tortuously long pause between my next sentence.  
“Neither have I ever regretted anything I’ve done drunk.”  
From the corner of my eye, I see his head snap up again, a hopeful yet wary look spreading across his features. Before he can speak, I wander away towards the counter again and place the album on the desk, Frank following hurriedly like a dog at my heels.  
Lindsey holds up her end of the deal as a smile stretches across her face. “Hey Gerard, thought you were working today?” She says as she logs the purchase on the ancient computer.  
“Nah, day off.” I play easily.  
“Well I hope you told Martin.” She says, smiling cheekily.  
So she’s deciding to play it up now is she? Making me work for her favor. I flash a small glare before I reply. “Yeah, but you know him.” I say, stuffing a ten dollar note into her hand. “Keep the change.” I mutter, hoping it serves as a good enough bribe for her to stop talking.  
I appear to be a good judge of character, as she sighs contently, placing the money into the cash register. “Well alright. See you later, Gerard.” She says, waving politely.  
“Bye Lindsey.” I say flatly, and head for the door, leaving Frank to pay alone.

I exhale deeply, the smoke racing from my mouth and disappearing from my sight, carried into the air by the slight breeze. I hear the door rattle closed behind me, but keep my eyes turned away and back pressed against the building. He stands beside me, carrying a bag with his new purchase and taking a brief moment to fix his hair. “Well now what?” He asks watching the street like I do, the two of us unsure whether the other understands fully what the others’ intentions are. I shrug and tap the ash from my cigarette, taking another drag. “Seems a shame to have bought two albums and not hear them.” I say. “I’ve got a record player, reckon you want to stop by?”  
It’s a poor excuse to get him to come over, but I need what I know is slipped in his back pocket, I need that plastic rectangle covered with numbers.  
Numbers that determine whether I get off scott free or whether I end up in cuffs.  
Frank looks down at his hands, or his bag - I am unsure. All I know is that he looks away from me until I glance at him, catching him watching me. “Alright.” He agrees, his expression unreadable. Whatever it is that pulls us together like this, that makes me know I should not be leading him to my home but that switches something in my brain that makes me susceptible to his magnetic pull, is growing unbearable. It rises in intensity every time my eyes lay on him and plagues my thoughts when I am alone.  
So as the two of us walk side by side, eyes everywhere but each other, heading for my apartment, I can’t help but wonder what it is that makes me feel these things, and where it came from in the first place.

****

Frank steps forward, leaning over the railing on the small platform that overlooks my open plan home as I turn to close the door behind me. “Jesus,” he breathes “where d’you get the money for this?” He smiles in awe. I return the pleasant expression and jog bouncily down the stairs.  
“Inheritance.” I bluff, spinning on my heels as I continue to walk, pulling my jacket from my shoulders and tossing it over the couch. “But I paid for some of the more… modern parts.” I say gesturing to the observatory platform he stands on, which is not a lie I suppose.  
“It’s amazing.” He sighs as he patters down the stairs, taking in the whole area as he reaches the ground level. His eyes soon settle on the wall adorned with paintings. Lips parted in wonder, he dips a hand into his pocket and moves over to them, the other hands reaching out to point at the canvasses. I watch him from the record player in the corner, setting the Misfits vinyl onto the deck. “Did you paint these?” He murmurs. I scoff quietly to myself before replying.  
“I wish. Got them at auction, damn good prices too.” I say, dropping the needle on to the spinning disc, the music beginning to play at the perfect volume for our conversation. “They’re stunning, kind of like the ones you see in museums!” He laughs and I force myself to join in, hiding my plunging stomach.  
This is dangerous.  
But I cannot turn him away.  
“Do you want a drink?” I ask, moving over to the kitchen and reaching into the refrigerator for a beer to calm my nerves. He looks over to me and nods. I toss him a bottle and the opener after I clip the top of mine off expertly. He thanks me and takes a swig, tilting the bottle but not breaking eye contact. “This is good.” He says, holding the bottle beside him and running his eyes over the design on the label.  
“I don’t like the cheap stuff.”  
“I can see that.” Frank motions with his gaze to the apartment. I take a small step towards him and narrow my gaze, carefully watching him sip the beer and tap his foot to the drum beat from the song. “So you uh, you knew that clerk? At Randy’s?” He says,the awkwardness heavy in his tone, striking a wicked sense of enjoyment into me. “Kind of, we work together.” I brush it off casually, liking the way it makes him nervous. “Is she uh…”  
“She’s no one.” I assure him, realizing that he actually isn’t going to grow comfortable talking about Lindsey. Frank nods and drinks again, and I suddenly feel sickened at my cruelty.  
“Hey.” I say, and catch his eye again, holding his stare for a short while. “She’s no one.” I repeat, this time with more sincerity. Across his lips, a hint of a smile curls, but he drives it away with a clearing of his throat, rough and and deep. “Good song.” He says in an attempt to break the silence. I suddenly feel a rise of emotion in my chest. This is pathetic, we are stood here like strangers, which we are certainly not anymore. Neither of us dares to say something that might offend the other, which means we’re both too scared to even speak at all.  
I did not ask him here to play reality. I asked him here to get a job done, didn’t I? Who even knew anymore. “Fuck this.” I shake my head and gulp down two large mouthfuls of beer, moving swiftly over to the couch, bending down to open the drawer at the top of the small set of such by the TV. From it, I lift a large packet of grass and hold it up to him. “We’re only interesting when we’re not pretending we’re okay.” I sigh, to which Frank nods. I gesture for him to join me and he collapses onto the couch, sitting slightly slouched. I hand him some paper from the drawer and a good amount of weed, which I trust him to roll himself, as I am set to making my own, flopping into my chair. I light mine first, balancing it easily between my lips. When the sweet smoke fills my throat, I toss the lighter over to Frank. I breathe slowly, making the most of my state.  
I have not shared any of my drugs or good drink with anyone since long before the Louvre, which of course Frank would not know. But somehow I feel like he understands, and that he respects it too.  
“This is pretty good.” He sighs, breathing the smoke out to swirl and hang in the air with mine. The air before me looks thick as I agree and let myself relax. Conversation will come soon enough, at least it will now.

My legs are heavy and lie strewn over the arm of the chair, my head tossed back so that my hair dangles and splays beneath me. Frank is slumped on the couch and laughs slowly as we talk, our restless minds finally at peace for the time being.  
“Do you think it was a coincidence that we met at that auction?” He slurs pathetically. Frank certainly has a particular way with words when he is intoxicated, although it’s not a very good way with them. I sigh deeply and rub my gritty eyes with one finger. “No.” Comes my lethargic reply, because I know it wasn’t. I had planned to meet him and talk to him and have him slouched in a heap on my sofa, both of us not fully aware of our own surroundings. “Me neither.” He sighs back, a plume of smoke rising from where his head is resting. “What is this.” He asks, and slightly confused I force my body up a little. “What’s what?”  
He rolls his head around and pushes himself upright, moving one hand back and forth in the space between us. “This, going on between us.” He says, pupils blown and eyelids slightly drooped. I shrug half heartedly, unsure of the answer to his question myself.  
There is no denying that whatever it is that is filling the empty air between us is abnormal and jarring, even though my best efforts to ignore its presence had been mostly effective before.  
As I rest my gaze upon him, the tension between us thickens, swelling into the cracks and spaces between my bones. The music has stopped playing, the only sound being the slight scratch and tick from the record player as it emits nothing. I should be determining a way to get his credit card, to swipe it from him and send him on his merry way, oblivious to my crime so that I can take off and disappear forever.  
But instead, I’m choosing a staring match and a billowing silence.  
“I don’t want to have to be this source of awkwardness Gerard.” Frank muses quietly, looking over to the kitchen. “I feel like since the other night, all we’ve done is avoid each other.” Frank continues, and I am unsure whether he is being sincere or whether this is simply Frank in high mode. “Okay, let’s get something clear,” he says, which I assume will be the next conversation and not the air around us, which is thick with the smog of our lungs. “You like women, right?” He says matter of factly. Laughing, I shake my head.  
“I don’t like anyone.” I smile. “Perks of being me.”  
“Well, okay, I do.” He says carefully. “And if the two of us are certain of that, then why is it that the only time I feel completely at ease is when I’m sat smoking my head out with you?” He presents his question fairly. My legs feel a tingle, the blood constricting in my arteries and veins making me feel stiff. I unfold myself from the chair and stand with a wobble, Frank’s confused eyes following my uncertain movements. “Do you want a drink?” I ask, understanding that I have very easily managed to push aside his questions in favor of more alcohol. Despite my rudeness, Frank doesn’t say no, and so I saunter to the kitchen unsteadily, balancing my leaning body on the open refrigerator door. I remove two beers and successfully hand him one, falling into the space beside him in fear that I simply won’t make it back to my own chair without falling head first. After realizing that I may have hit a sore spot with Frank, I take a quick swig of beer and drop the bottle on to the coffee table. “I don’t know, Frank.” I answer his previous questions.  
“Maybe we’re both just crazy.” The expression on his face turns sour, but settles soon after.  
“Maybe we’re both just too scared.” He suggests, calmly wiping his lips with the back of his sleeve. “Scared of what?” I frown.  
He tilts his head slightly, his hands steepled and fingers crossed through one another.  
“Each other.” He says. The fear I had tried to drown out with drugs and alcohol that had buried itself comfortably underneath everything else in my body, suddenly flared up violently. He was right, we were scared of each other, petrified. Stricken by the fear of what the other could do to us and paralyzed by the idea of what we could do to the other.  
So then that was the reason that after this conclusion, he pushed his body forward and collided with my lips, a violent and dirty kiss breaking the silence between us.  
Was it the fear that I had of him, of what he already knew about my greater plans that made me kiss him back, hungrily chasing his desire.  
The last time had been gentle, careful and cautious.  
This was not.  
If he is a storm then I am the eye, feeling him twist around me as we take to our feet. He is thunder and I am a rolling cloud, carrying him swiftly towards the bed at the far end of the room.  
We are so scared of ourselves and of each other that this is the only right thing we can possibly do, and yet it is the most wrong thing anyone else could ever do. He mirrors my footsteps as we climb the small set of stairs to my bed, standing taller than the rest of the room and breathless already from our impact. He glances down at the sheets, motioning towards them silently and I can’t help but think of this as one of the most revealing things about him.  
Despite all the time we should be trying to keep one another off of ourselves, we have all the time in the world for his teasing.  
Pulling him on to the mattress beside me, he throws a kiss back on to my lips.

The ceiling looks distorted as I choke upon the hot air circulating around my face. My clothes lie abandoned in the darkness around me and my breathing ranges from deep to drowning unevenly. Frank’s lips part from mine and he presses his forehead to me, aligning our dilated pupils. “Will you..?” He asks, a hand reaching up to rest on my cheek. I nod breathlessly, even though I have not the slightest inkling of what I am supposed to do. Frank replaces my outline on the sheets with his own, and I watch him carefully, swinging my legs either side of him and resting my fingers on his warm chest. I slide down towards where his bare hips are, and smile at just how hard he has become for me. I run my hand along his shaft and he gasps for air, drinking in the sweet taste of the smoke that has dispersed and filled the whole apartment.  
Something in my mind drives me forwards and I close my lips around him, somehow knowing what to do despite being way out of my depth.  
By the time I pull away, Frank is emitting the most sinful sounds that I am sure I will be sent to hell for this. My cock is covered with lube that I keep in my top drawer, shining and wet, and I glance over at Frank from between his legs. No words are spoken, just a silent understanding that he is ready. I line myself up, just like he had done before, and push in.  
Holy fuck he is tight.  
His hips buckle and legs twitch as I push myself into him, a groan purring from deep in his chest. I find myself a rhythm at which I am more than comfortable, and begin to thrust myself deeper, exploring the angles and trying to find the point in which Frank will be pushed overboard and left to gasp for whatever air is still there. “Fuck you’re big.” Frank breathes as his hand flies to his hair, gripping it tightly as if it will help him control himself.  
It doesn’t.  
The moan that cacophonies from him is seeded with filth and pleasure, and I feel my blood rush faster at the sound. His hips are like a sailboat, moving perfectly in time with my waves and never moving too fast.  
There are no longer seven deadly sins, I have concluded as a moan escapes my lips, the breath knocked from me as Frank grows more responsive, a hand reaching for his own cock to help himself along.  
There are eight.  
The last one, is Frank Iero.  
Time lapses, me leading the way and feeling myself rise with the urge to release myself, Frank growing closer and closer to coming himself. It has become a race to see who has the most self control, who is capable of resisting the other the most, and neither of us want to lose.  
But God, the sensation.  
It’s more than overwhelming, it’s prodigious, intense, and it keeps growing.  
I bite down on my lip, feeling the physical strain on my body to hold back. Frank almost contorts and cries out in pleasure, as close as me and still refusing to be the first to come.  
The pain of this pleasure is worthy of sentence for torture, my body convulsing with electricity and nerves exploding with the speed of the signals passing my synapses.  
I cannot hold on any longer, my fingers slipping from the ledge that is control and I plunge into a stinging, hot light. I feel myself release, body shaking and voice tearing away at the walls with the noise of my climax. Frank is close behind me, his groans ripping through my ears and stripping me of my discretion.  
When the two of us are able to work our diaphragms again, I pull out.  
My bones disintegrate and leave me lifeless, falling down beside him on my bed and watching our chests rise and fall. My mouth is so dry that words feel too wet, like to form them would drown me.  
If Frank’s earlier theory is correct, and he is scared of me, then it must be said that I am absolutely terrified of him.

****

I wait no less than half an hour before I hear Frank's breathing slow, the small rise in his chest proving to me that he is finally asleep. My body is aching and tired, but I was given a job. Rolling over, I scour the floor with my eyes until they settle on his jeans. Being careful not to wake him as I do, I lean myself out of the bed and stretch my arms towards the pair, grabbing the leg and tugging it towards me. I fumble with the fabric until I find the back pocket, my fingers closing around a plastic rectangle. With one movement, I remove the card and hold it close to my face so as to read it better. Satisfied finally, I slide the card into the top drawer of the bedside table and close it, just as Frank begins to stir.  
"Are you okay?" He asks sleepily and I smile, turning to him through the sheets.  
"Perfect." I say. "I'm just perfect."


	9. Life On A Murder Scene

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again, let's just say to expect updates to be Sundays for the time being.  
> Home life is a little rough recently, not to mention I'm going to be very busy throughout the next month, so if updates end up a little dispersed then I'm very sorry!  
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter, it was quite fun to write actually, so I hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.  
> -GT

“Gerard?”  
I snap up my head instantly, jolting to the sound of my own name being called. Ray watches me carefully, concern laced through the creases in his face. I glance quickly at the faces around me, everyone watching me intently. I have been drifting in and out of a dreamlike state for most of the day, and I would not be surprised if everyone is getting more than pissed off with me by now.  
It’s not my lack of interest or ignorance to pay attention, I am simply in a thoughtful mood. The room feels heavy, almost like I have thrown a blanket over it to cover up the events from the previous night so that no one will see it. I kept my bed unmade as usual, only this time it felt like I’d tried too hard to make it look natural, and that at any moment I was going to be called out for my criminal actions.  
“Do you have it?” Ray asks, his voice slow and patient, though it is obvious that he is growing tired of repeating himself. I nod and pull Frank’s credit card from the pocket of my jeans, handing it over to him carefully. The tall, lean man sits with his laptop perched upon his lap, his eyes flicking from the card to the screen and back, repeating the procedure over and over until he is finished typing. The program we use to hack the account is exactly the same as the one we used to get into the Louvre’s archives, which is the reason I feel so confident with this part of the plan, despite it being our third attempt to steal the money in the first place. As Ray begins the file download, the rest of us sit with drinks and silent stares, tired of having to worry about this. The excitement and thrill of a job like this has very quickly worn off, leaving us bare and cold to the pressure of getting out of this in one piece. My eyes look over at the screen, but quickly fall away with boredom as I see the download is only 10% complete. “How did you do it then, Gerard?” Mikey’s voice cuts through the silence sharply, aggressively breaking the tension between everyone.  
“Oh, uh…” I begin nervously. How was I supposed to get out of this one? _Oh I just fucked the guy and stole it from his jeans, no big deal._ “I had him at a store, got the guy to use it to buy a record and just swiped it from his back pocket when he knew little else.” I say casually, like the job was nothing more than a simple pick pocket. Mikey seems almost disappointed, and slinks back into his chair with a small nod, unable to spark any more conversation.  
Ray however, is making a fantastic job of giving a running commentary of every pixel on the screen: “Come on this is taking forever!”, “God move faster you slow fuck”, “Did it really take this long with the Louvre?” By the time he reaches the third rhetorical question concerning the speed of his program I have switched off completely, losing myself again in my own thoughts.  
I cast my mind back to the previous night, to the horrific things the two of us had done.  
What the fuck was wrong with me? Once is at least understandable, and I of course would not have completed my job without doing what I had done, but twice? Surely that said something about me? That I was an uncontrollable, selfish, stupid idiot who thought with his cock and not his head was probably a close enough conclusion to draw. But then again, I had managed to get his credit card. It appeared that the only way I could actually carry out this plan was to sleep with Frank as much as possible, as I always seemed to end up on the right side of things afterwards.  
Before I realize just how much time has passed, Ray happily announces that the download is complete. The three of us crowd around him to watch as he works his fingers over the keyboard, swiftly typing codes and passwords until a small information box appears with the text ‘Transfer Pending.’  
From this moment on, it’s a straight up wait. I begin to think of everything I can do once we’re gone. The moment we’re out of here, I’m going to get a job, a real one. And I’m going to learn to actually play the guitar properly so that all the lies I’ve told will actually be true. My chest feels tight and head airy with the excitement of exactly what I can do with my life now that I no longer have to worry about pleasing Ray or impressing Mikey or outdoing Bert, or even about getting caught. I don’t have to worry about Frank or the smile Lindsey gave me at the record store, I don’t have to worry about being polite to the coffee girl every morning or playing charades about who I am.  
I will be free, I will be myself, and it’s an amazing idea to have.  
As the screen flashes, a message appears.  
‘Transfer Complete.’  
A whoop of joy erupts from all of us, snapping the tension in the air and leaving me speechless. We’d done it, we had finally achieved what we set out to do.  
The last heist.  
The last crime.  
The last time we would all be sat around a laptop like this, the smell of weed still pungent in the air and nerves racing through us. This is the last time we will ever share a cry of success like this, a communal sense of achievement over the fact that we had done something. We had finally made something of ourselves after being the butt of the joke our whole lives. That kind of feeling didn’t come every day, and it wasn’t a feeling you could just share with anyone.  
It was an emotion that drew us all together, put us into our own spotlights so that we could feel worth something, even for only a few moments. It knitted us closer and proved to us that we didn’t need fancy cars or Playboy mansions to feel valued. We didn’t need that because we had all the value in the world right here. No one saw anyone else as an enemy in this moment, no one saw anyone else as pointless or useless, we were all here, we had all done it together, we were all heroes.  
And it was in those few small moments, the smiles that we shared and embraces that we threw out that made me understand everything at last.  
I would miss this. I would miss them. This was all going to go away, I was going to lose it forever, and there was nothing I could do to ever get it back. The sudden realization that this was the end sent a shiver down my spine and sewed a thread of sorrow through my stomach. We had gone out with an almighty bang, that was for sure, and we had certainly come out on top. But what made it all worthwhile, what made it bearable, was the fact that we had come out of it as friends.  
We were not enemies or villains to each other, we did not resent each other’s presence anymore. We had come out as people, as human beings, and better ones than before too.  
Because despite this inevitable end, despite all the fights and fall outs, all the hate and sorrow, there was still joy. There was still excitement and happiness, success and elevation.  
Ray Gun Jones was never official, it was never an organization or a group. We were never a club or a team. Ray Gun Jones was not a gang, it was an idea.

****

I pull Mikey aside as we begin to disband, Bert already halfway up the stairs to the door. I ask him calmly if he wants to go downtown for a coffee or something, which he eagerly agrees to. I feel slightly guilty, as I realize I have led him to believe that this means I am interested in social interaction again, which I am not. As Ray slings his laptop over his shoulder and waves me goodbye, Bert holding the front door for him, Mikey slips into an excitable mood.  
“I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it!” He grins stupidly, his hands stuffed deep into his pockets to stop them flying in the air in a successful cheer. Though his optimism is infectious, and I cannot stifle the smile I give him because the mood is so high and the end is so close.  
“First thing I’m going to down we get out of here is buy me a bass guitar and I’m going to start playing again.” He says, fondness in his voice as he recalls the days before RGJ. I pull on a pair of shoes and lead him to the door. “What about you?” He asks and I shrug. I feel as if telling Mikey, or anyone, what I want to do now will take away the glimmer of it all, like the words will strip it of its purity. So instead, I flash him my enigmatic smile and reply simply. “I have no idea.”

The air is warm with a soft breeze, the kind of weather I like the most. Mikey and I have never been more comfortable around one another, the two of us smiling and talking more than we have ever done before. The pressure is off now, and conversation no longer feels forced, or censored so much in case offence is caused. We can just be brothers again, and it feels strangely comforting.  
For some reason, the feeling of being watched no longer burdens me, and something heavy feels lifted from my shoulders. Mikey and I smile as we carry cups of coffee in our hands, telling each other anything we can think of at the time. As we reach a familiar street, Mikey points to a store a few meters away that I recognize well. “Will you come into Randy’s with me?” He asks calmly. “I’m thinking of picking up something, heard Iron Maiden have a live album right?” He asks rhetorically. I needn't reply, I will be following him into the store shortly anyway. Something about it feels right, like I’m being pulled in through the door as Mikey holds it open for me, the same nostalgic feeling creeping in as I enter.  
Nothing has changed of course, the shelves are still stocked fully to bursting, walls decorated and floorboards creaky. As I enter my eyes automatically fall to the cash register to see Lindsey bent intently over a comic book, hair in the same choppy pigtails and shirt now at least a day old. Mikey carries himself over to the records instantly, caught up in the vast world of music as quickly as my desire for conversation disappears. Yet I still approach her, placing my hand on the counter and clearing my throat quietly.  
"Doom Patrol." I say blankly as she turns a page, deliberately feigning ignorance to my presence.  
"You're a fan of Doom Patrol?" I rephrase my statement as more of a question, which piques her interest, her head rising and eyes meeting mine.  
"A simple hello would have been nice." She says sarcastically, her finger pinching the corner of the page lightly. "What brings you back here Gerard?" She asks inquisitively, although it borders on bitterness. I nod my head towards Mikey, who is buried in the many sleeves and artwork. "A... Friend." I smile pleasantly. Lindsey raises her eyebrow at me, her brown eyes alive with questions.  
"What about your other friend?" She asks quietly, courteous enough to understand I may not want the topic of Frank spread loudly among the few other shoppers. I shrug my shoulders casually, brushing her off effortlessly. "He's busy." I reply simply, her unconvinced gaze running over me like a river over rocks.  
"So what do you want? Another favor?" She asks carefully but confidently until I shake my head.  
"No, my friend is here to buy something and I am not, is it not acceptable to want a chat?" I explain, a smile breaking out on her face and lighting up her features. The truth is, Lindsey is a very beautiful woman. Strong but slim shoulders stand with posture, her neck just visible through the gap in the collar of her shirt. Her lipgloss smile is close to infectious, but I am far too immune to catch on, instead focusing on the fact that I am not attracted to Lindsey but I will continue to act like I am for reasons I cannot fathom. “Depends what you want to chat about.” She replies happily, lying the comic book down on the desk and folding her arms over it.  
I gesture to the book. “You’re a comic book fan?” I begin, feeling as though it is necessary to mention considering my greeting earlier. Lindsey nods and watches me carefully. “Yeah, I’m an art grad.” She says as if it is nothing more than a simple trait. I feel my eyes widen with interest.  
“Me too.” I grin, growing less aware of my surroundings with each moment. “You like to draw comics?” I ask, in hopes that we share something else in common, and to my surprise she nods. “It’s about all I’m good for!” She jokes, the two of us laughing quietly to ourselves at the comment, though there is a strange honesty to her voice. We talk comics for a while, debating whether X-Men or Batman is better, talking easily until I feel a presence behind me. I turn to see Mikey, an eyebrow raised and sneaky smile on his lips, holding a record which I assume he intends to buy. I move aside quickly, letting him hand it over to Lindsey, who begins to price and bag it for him. As I stand away from the counter, my eyes scan the room. Something feels out of place, I hadn’t noticed it whilst talking, but now it felt obvious. There was that familiar paranoia of being watched creeping into the room and crawling along the skin of my arms, and I chased the feeling around the room with my eyes. They suddenly landed on someone, a tall, dark haired man with a wide waist and black rimmed glasses stands at the far end of the room, standing to face the opposite wall. I should feel relief that he is the source of the feeling, I know him, or at least have seen him before. But I don’t.

James turns to meet my gaze, my instinct to look away growing but for some reason I cannot tear my eyes away, like watching a gruesome scene in a horror movie. He watches me silently, the other shoppers unaware and going about their own business. His stare is that of a hawk’s watching its prey, it’s eyes stone cold and never flitting from the creature’s every movement. The tension between myself and him is growing, rising higher and higher but my eyes refuse to look away. My heart thumps nervously in my chest, my palms becoming uncomfortably clammy and I feel a sickening twist turn in my stomach. Mikey’s hand rests on my shoulder suddenly, making me jump slightly, sucking in as much air as possible. “Are you alright?” He asks, concerned eyes giving me the once over. I nod, glancing at him and then Lindsey, who also watches me with confusion. “Fine.” I reply, glancing quickly over at where James was standing to see his back turned, hands circling over the tops of the shelves. Mikey follows my gaze, but pats me on the shoulder when he can’t see what it is I am staring at. “C’mon, let’s go.” He says, nodding over at Lindsey as if to assure her I’m not mad. Before I let him hustle me to the door, I shove his pushing hands off me. “I’ll be one minute.” I say, moving away from his grasp. He sighs and studies me intently.  
“Don’t be stupid.” He whispers to me and shoulders past, the bell above the door tinkling as he leaves.  
“Careful Space Cadet, don’t get lost again.” Lindsey smiles awkwardly. I shake my head to try to clear the confusion and smile weakly.  
“Sorry, thought I saw something.” I apologize hurriedly. “Before I go, I just wanted to say thanks for the other day, you saved me a lot of explaining.” I say thankfully, preparing to leave when she stops me, ripping a small corner from the back cover of the comic and scribbling on it. She hands it to me proudly. “Call me sometime.” She smiles and I almost feel my gut twist with embarrassment. Somehow I manage to keep my complexion cool and accept the phone number graciously, giving her a forced smile and turning to leave, the nervous feeling of eyes on my back playing on my mind as I open the door.

“You got her _number_?” Mikey exclaims in disbelief, and I can’t help smiling at his idiocy. “Man, she was hot how did _you_ get _her_ number?” He says teasingly and I punch his shoulder playfully, just hard enough to knock him slightly off balance. The incident in Randy’s has already been put far behind us, but I cannot help thinking about it. Had I really seen James there? It all seemed too out of place, too unlikely to actually happen. If it had occured, and if it was real, then why was James there in the first place, and more specifically, why was he watching me?  
It wasn’t extraordinary that he had been in Randy’s, I realize. It’s a local store and it sells good music, he has no reason not to be there. But something about the way he’d held my gaze, staring right at me, into me as if he could see every little secret I was hiding away made me think otherwise. James had been ignorant towards me on our first encounter, but I hadn’t taken it as anything more than his personality. But this happening, this encounter, had stirred such a fear and paranoia in me that I couldn’t help thinking that maybe the first time we’d met, he hadn’t been rude out of habit. There was only one way to find out, and that was to talk to Frank.  
There was only one problem with that.  
I was supposed to be leaving soon, in fact, Ray has informed me that two weeks from today we will be on a flight to Australia. I had complained at first, telling him that I had technically told him beforehand that it should be next Wednesday that we leave, but he made a strong excuse that there were no flights until the week after that. Unfortunately for me, that meant I had to endure another two weeks under the dangerously watchful eye of the suspicious New Jersey public whilst finding ways to lie to Frank about my impending departure. What I didn’t need was any more excuses for the two of us to be bonding, or sharing any kind of time together. I needed to be away from him in order to keep my disappearance on the down low, not questioning him about his life long friends. However, this matter was serious, or at least I thought it was. It wasn’t until now that it had occurred to me that our success in getting the money did not make us any safer than before. This was only the easy part; we still had to get out of the country before anyone noticed what we were doing, especially Frank. I attempt to rationalize the situation, perhaps James had just recognized me, and was trying to tell me to back off from approaching him, maybe he had seen me as a threat.  
As believable to anyone else these theories would have been, to me they just felt like empty excuses. James knew something, God knows what but he did.  
And he was on to me.

When I return to my apartment I find several messages on my phone from Frank asking me if I am okay. The previous night’s agenda had completely escaped me, and it wasn’t until now that I remembered it was several hours ago that I had waved him goodbye. It had been so easy to let other things occupy my thought process, so effortless to push away all the things I remembered about our evening together. I felt oddly proud; if it was this easy now, then surely I would have no trouble when I left for good. I ignored the messages, knowing that he knew I was okay, and he’d probably assumed that I changed my mind about my ‘day off’ at ‘work’. Instead, I entered a new number and set the contact name as ‘Lindsey’, sending a simple hello to make sure that the number worked.  
Unsurprisingly, it did. With a sarcastic reference to her earlier scold of my greeting, she replied instantly. “That’s better.” A smile crept across my lips, feeling devious and sneaky.  
Of course, as I had said, Lindsey was a beautiful woman. But there was little to no point in me attempting to make anything more of our casual acquaintance considering I would be outward bound in a few weeks, and also that I was not sexually or even romantically attracted to her.  
I had too much of those kind of feelings to worry about without her interference.  
There was a strange sense of guilt I felt as I reminded myself of Frank, something that felt like I was a bad person. At first, I assumed it was the post success realization that I had stolen from a man with little to nothing to his name, but it felt deeper than that. It was a nasty, aching feeling, and I decided it needed to be remedied. Reaching for the bottle of whiskey on the counter, I called a celebration for myself, and began to wash away the worries with a tidal wave of alcohol.

 

****

I wake to the sound of voices, confusion seeping in, and then quickly followed with fear. My mind first worries that someone has broken into my apartment, but then fears that it’s something worse. What if it’s the police? What if they’re here to arrest me? I lie still, my head buried into the sheets just enough to hide my face but so that I can still peek out, like a child playing hide and seek. My eyes scan the space, looking for people, signs that they’re here, but land instead on the TV and a figure laying on the sofa.  
The racing in my heart slows down and is replaced with frustration at the man sat, comfortably reclined on my sofa without having knocked and then having intruded.  
I throw the sheets from me and pull on a pair of jeans discarded on the floor, my shirt somehow finding its way over my head of tousled hair. “I’ll have you arrested for breaking and entering.” I say sleepily, padding down to the ground level and meandering over to the kitchen. Bert laughs shortly, turning the volume down a little.  
“You could have me arrested for a lot worse.” I smile to myself at his comment, what feels like fondness creeping in. I pour myself a bowl of cereal and wander back over to the TV, standing before him and chewing slowly. “Why are you here?” I ask, deciding against telling him I thought he was part of a SWAT team. He sighs and sits up a little, his dark hair a reflection of his state of mind; messy and unkempt.  
“I was just in the neighborhood.” He lies casually. Out of the two of us, I always was the better actor.  
“The real reason?” I ask, rubbing my head with one hand to ease the headache I had induced upon myself due to prior celebratory engagements.  
“Fuck it.” He sighs and throws his legs over the sofa, sitting so that he is hunched over slightly, palms pressed together. He gestures for me to sit beside him, even though it is my couch and he is in my apartment. Bert has a tendency to claim ownership of every place he enters, like an animal that must mark its territory to warn others to back off. However due to my still stand-by mode body, I ignore the chance to argue and take up his invitation, resting my cereal on the floor beside the furniture. “You and I Gerard, we used to be like brothers.” He says and I frown at him, watching his face contort with thought. “We used to be inseparable, best friends.” He continues and I already begin to feel uncomfortable. Whatever I have done to Bert through these years, all the things I’d put him through and things he’d put himself through, had taken their toll on his mental state of mind. It was really quite unnerving. “I just wanted you to know that when we leave, it’s a new start.” He continues, a hint of relevance shining through his jumbled point of conversation. “We can just start again, like old times.” He says and smiles weakly at me.  
For the first time, I feel a sorrow for Bert that I had never done before. Sure, he was a selfish, over ambitious, controlling piece of shit, but he was also right.  
Our friendship had been the reason that we started this together, and it looked to be the reason we would end it too. The strain that the years had put on him was present in every line of his face, every curl of his unwashed hair. It wasn’t until now that I regretted the deterioration of our friendship. I had watched paranoia and anxiety creep into his bones like an aging old man with arthritis, I had let it twist us all and change everything we had once stood for, and there was nothing I could to do get it back.  
There was a silence between us that sapped the energy from us both, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Instead, I let it simmer until I finally turned back to him, looking at him properly through clean eyes, eyes that didn’t remember the times we’d fought, or times we’d brooded, times we hated each other enough to wish the other dead. I smile simply and nod. “Just like old times.” I agree, and watch his tired, aching face smile sadly, his eyes shimmering with an old, familiar light, one that had twinkled when we were young and innocent.  
“Just like old times.”

 

****

Bert stays for a while longer, the two of us sat in silence watching whatever we can find on the TV. Pretty soon it becomes evident that he intends to stay, so I offer him a drink, which he accepts. As I hand him a beer, my phone buzzes. In hopes that it is Lindsey, I pick it up and scan it quickly.  
It is from Frank.  
I open it out of curiosity, feeling rude after my earlier attempts to ignore him.  
“Here. Now. Emergency. -frnk”  
My heart skips a beat. Emergency? This doesn’t look good. In fact, this looks awful. I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice from catching as I turn to Bert. “I’ve uh, I‘ve got to go.” I rush, leaving no room for him to reply as I grab my jacket and swiftly make my way to the front door. Bert swivels around in his seat, eyes wide with confusion as he watches me race up the stairs to the front door.”Where are you going?” He calls after me, but I am already opening the door.  
“Just stay here!” I call back, letting the door close behind me.  
My feet pound down the stairs as I fling the door to the outside world open, pushing past the crowds and dashing worriedly along the pavement, attempting to make it to Frank in half time.  
When I reach his apartment block, I smash the button with his name. There is no reply through the speaker, the door buzzing seconds after I hit the call button. I yank the door open and fly up the stairs, my hand tugging me forward as I grip at the railing. When I reach his front door, I ram through and call into the hallway, hearing a strained reply from the front room. I lean round the frame to see Frank gripping his phone, face red and shouting loudly into the speaker. James is sat, attempting to calm him on the sofa. My eyes trace their faces, looking for clues.  
“Well can’t something be done to _re-transfer_ it?” Frank pleads helplessly. I frown and move over to James, who is making a very good job of ignoring me. I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s here, after all, him and Frank are good friends, but I can’t help feeling uneasy. “What’s going on? What happened?” I ask, looking from one of them to the other. Frank turns away from me, stress rising in his voice as he shouts angrily into the phone. “Then I’ll call the police! You _must_ be able to do _something_!” He sighs, worn down. James glances at me, and turns away, taking the phone from Frank and hanging up. He immediately takes to consoling him, attempting to reason, but by now I’m growing impatient. “FRANK!” I shout, both of them turning to me and staring in disbelief. “Are you going to tell me why I just ran a quarter of a mile or not?” I ask, voice breathy. Frank looks to me, fear and pain deep in his gaze, his fingers closed around the blank phone. “All the money from the auction… It’s... Well it’s gone.” He says slowly. My chest pounds with nerves, watching him look to me for comfort. I am tongue tied, unsure of how to approach him. I knew he would find out, of course, he had to at some point.  
I just did not expect to be here when he did. To see the fear it left him feeling, the worry.  
I instantly wanted to take it all back.  
“Where is it?” I ask, hoping my voice is as level as I intend it to be. He frowns and sighs deeply, knitting his eyebrows together tightly.  
“The bank said it had been transferred to another account, but I haven’t touched it since I got it!” He says hopelessly.  
“Are you saying… someone… took it?” I ask, a horrible, sickening feeling turning in my stomach. Frank nods, looking back up to me, his eyes shimmering with sad tears. He nods simply and crumples into himself. Instinctively, I reach my arms around him, hugging him close to me for comfort as he sobs into his hands. My eyes meet James’ over his shoulder, and I feel a deep pang of worry. His eyes are cold and frosty, something nasty piercing my outer mask of mystery.  
“We’ll sort this, it’s okay.” I muttersoothingly, watching James like a hawk, the same stare we shared in Randy’s strong between us as I move away from Frank.  
“I’ll call the police.” James says, taking the phone from Frank and giving me one more glare before he turns away, disappearing into the hall. I watch Frank carefully as he wipes a sorry tear with the back of his sleeve. “It’s all I have Gerard.” He stutters through choked up lungs. I frown at him, wishing I could tell him everything, wishing I could just give it all back.  
But I stay silent, everything that could possibly go wrong running through my mind all at once.  
James’s voice is hushed, and sounds like more of a mumble as I strain to hear his conversation. I have to be out of here before the police turn up, but Frank is in such a state that I can hardly leave him alone. In desperation, I grab his shoulders and look right at him. “Come back with me, you need space.” I say, trying to drag him towards the door. But he pulls back, rooting himself to the ground. “I need to stay, talk to the police!” He says, trying to worm from my grip.  
“James can do it, come on.” I rush, tugging at him.  
“Gerard!” He says, making me look back to him, watching the desperation spread across his face. “Just go, it’s okay.” He sighs, shrugging his shoulders so I let go. Guilt wriggles through me, making me squirm at my cruelty. But I know it is the right thing to do. “I’ll see you Frank, I promise. I’m not leaving until this is all solved.” I swear to him, which is a huge mistake. The idea is that I will be gone before this is solved, not after. He pulls me close one more time until let go, smiling sadly at him. “I promise Frank, this isn’t over until you get back every cent.” I whisper, patting his shoulder comfortingly and traipsing back through the hall. As I reach the door, a deep voice comes thick and strong.”Where are you going?” I look back to see James standing, phone dead and frown prominent.  
“Home.” I reply sullenly. Pulling the door open and shooting him a defensive scowl.  
“We’ll see.” He mutters, turning back again.  
As I reach the street, I feel a shiver freeze my bones over, chilled at James’s words. The whole way home I bite my lip in worry, the feeling of being watched teasing me again.  
When I finally make it back to my apartment, Bert is still sat watching TV. He jerks his head around when the door clicks closed.  
“What the hell Gerard?” He cries as I down his beer that he left on the coffee table, partly because I am still short on breath and partly because my nerves are so frayed that not even the strongest thread will stitch them back up. “We’re in trouble. Big trouble.” I pant between gulps of air and then more beer.  
“What do you mean?” Bert asks, his voice taut and worried.  
“Iero knows. He knows about the money, and I think someone else is on to us. One of his friends.” I finally admit. Bert’s eyes drop to his feet and he breathes slowly, his shoulders moving up and down with each inhalation. “I’ll call the guys, we’ll leave tomorrow.”  
“We can’t leave tomorrow the flight isn’t until two weeks!” I cry, finally letting all the fear I had hidden away leak out through my words.  
“We’ll drive out of here, find a hotel for a little while and then jet off. If we stay here Gerard, we’ll be caught, and soon.” He sighs, reasoning with me carefully. Things are spiralling out of control in my mind, the fear of being caught and of Frank finding out creating all manners of terrifying situations in my head. “We have to keep it together, just until we can get out of here.” He says, which is something completely opposite to the feelings he conveyed to me the other day. According to his earlier claim, this was never going to go away, it would follow us forever. It wasn’t until now that I understood why he had believed that.  
But at the same time, I didn’t want to get away from Frank. I felt sick to the stomach about the trouble I had caused him, about the lies I had woven and the promises I had made that I knew I was not going to be able to keep. I needed to be here to make it all true, to find ways of making my lies a part of my life. I couldn’t leave with Bert, it would make everything look even worse, almost like holding a knife on a murder scene.  
“I can’t leave, Bert.” I say, watching as he stands to his full height. “It’ll look worse, it’ll make me look guilty.” I say, even though I am guilty. He nods, considering my words before trying to remain calm and answering me. “Where are you going to go? The only other place here that’s got a bed for you is prison cell.” He says.  
Suddenly, an idea pops into my mind. It’s misleading and wrong, and totally stupid, but it might just work. “I know a place.” I say, eyes wide with my idea. “I know a place! It’s okay! You and the guys go, make sure you find separate hotels so they can’t tie you together. I’ll be perfectly fine I promise.” I say, hoping that this is one I can at least try to keep. Bert eyes me cautiously as I attempt to pitch him my safety plan, but gives up after realizing I am not going to relent. “Alright. But I swear to God, if anything happens you have to call me.” He says, pointing an commanding finger at me. I nod eagerly and promise him over and over that I will.  
When Bert has finally gotten in touch with Mikey and Ray, he makes for the door. “I’ll let you know when we’re all safe.” He says, which I almost answer back at, because as long as all four of us are alive, we are never going to be safe. But I hold my tongue and watch him leave, the moment the door closes I reach for my phone. Tapping in the number quickly, I hit call and hold the phone to my ear. A sharp, clear voice comes from the other end and I smile to myself, relieved that I have an answer at least.

“Lindsey, fancy a drink tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks for all the Kudos you lot leave too - really drives me on to write more stuff for you guys!


	10. A Great Deed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW THIS IS SO LATE I HAVE REASONS.  
> 1\. I'm a British girl in her last year of secondary school and my final exams are like three months away. Basically I've been mad studying for three weeks straight, even now I've been at school in my half term holidays studying.  
> 2\. Family is ew.
> 
> Also tomorrow I am sort of off across the country on a short holiday and won't have any time to write, so I had to get this up tonight.   
> You guys are going to love this one I know it.  
> THANK YOU FOR BEING UNDERSTANDING PLEASE OKAY BYE.

I feel a pang of guilt as I comb my hair into a style that says I have some standards, and immediately regret asking Lindsey for a drink. I had suggested that we go down to a bar not far from Randy’s, and she had agreed, albeit through a fake ‘I’m not interested’ talk beforehand.   
The truth of the matter was that I needed somewhere I could stay, and she needed someone who wouldn’t leave, so together, we seemed to solve one anthers’ problem. My phone had been mostly dormant all day, Frank choosing either to retaliate to my ignorance the previous day, or simply to avoid me due to events prior to today that I had caused, only he didn’t know that.  
I hoped.  
As the evening draws nearer, my regret of the decision to see Lindsey has grown stronger and stronger. Surely it was not fair to play her like this, use her for my own selfish needs while I lead her on to believe that I care about her?   
This conscience has never caused problems for me before, as far as I am concerned, life is tough. We live in a capitalist society where it is every man for himself, and to me, that is a fair enough state of being.   
But since I had met Frank, since everything that I had done, I seem to have weakened and my initial defenses are crumbling. Whether it is my age beginning to catch up with me, or my confused emotions towards Frank, something is making me into a conscious being who thinks about important things and empathizes with others.   
It is quite a disgusting feeling.  
I opt for black jeans and a white, button up shirt, throwing my black jacket over the top, a look I hope makes me approachable. In reality, I probably look more like something out of a Tim Burton movie, which any other day I would not object to, but this one time I resent. I need to be charming and pleasant, which I already dread the thought of. Swallowing a quick glass of whiskey before I leave, I tuck my hands into my pockets and begin to walk the streets to the bar.

For some reason, I secretly hope that Lindsey doesn’t turn up after all. I could sleep anywhere really, even if I ended up outside the Seven Eleven, anything other than going through with this.   
But to my unfortunate luck, I hear the knock of heels against the wooden floor of the bar as I accept the beer I ordered from the bartender. The tall man glances beside me and looks back, giving me a raised eyebrow and sneaky smile, as if to tell me I’ve just scored big.   
That makes me feel worse.   
I flash him a glare as I turn away to see her stood before me, smile painted with red lipstick and hair let down so that it sits upon her shoulders in choppy layers. She no longer resembles a rebellious teenager, but instead looks grown up and dare I say, very attractive. Her denim jacket has been replaced with a red and black striped sweater that falls at her shoulder, a tattoo near the bone peeking through.  
I almost groan aloud when she flashes a toothy grin at me, ordering herself a drink, but manage to keep it to an internal grumble too quiet for her to hear. With the heels she is wearing, she is almost the same height as me, which at first sets me on edge, but then I realize how stupid I am being. After watching her shift on her feet whilst she waits for her beer, I suggest we sit at one of the tables towards the back of the room to stop her feet from aching under the strain of the heel on her black pixie boots. We end up sat at the table as far away from the bar as possible, opposite one another but lacking the romance of a candle or flowers. Lindsey rests her chin on her hand, leaning forwards with her other arm crossed before her chest on the table and I smile plainly. “So how are things?” I ask, which makes me cringe at myself.   
I have never been any good at this kind of thing.  
Lindsey smiles and blinks slowly. “Not too bad, you?”  
I nod, choosing my next words very carefully. “Okay I suppose, housing arrangement is on the downhill spiral though.” I reply, giving her a small smile as if the problem really isn’t a big deal. Of course, she will never know that it is in fact a huge deal. She frowns with concern as I sip my beer. “Oh God, what’s happened?” She asks. I could have her right where I want her, I just have to play it very delicately. “Landlord’s kicking me out, I tried calling my brother but he’s out of town.” I say, watching her intently.   
“What about your friend?” She asks, I assume referring to Mikey. I shrug, providing her with the answer she needs.   
“What about your other friend?”   
I force myself not to freeze at the mention of Frank, and instead smile sadly. “He’s got enough problems on his hands.” Lindsey nods in acceptance, sipping at her beer but being careful not to smudge her lipstick. “So where are you going to stay?” She asks, and I notice the way her voice changes at this question. She speaks more deeply, slowly and calmly.   
Oh I have her hooked.  
I shrug nonchalantly. “I don’t know, I might have to go out of town until I can get something sorted.” My voice is breathy and tired, tailored perfectly to hit her nerves. Lindsey shifts and takes a long swig of her drink. “I live here in Summit, why don’t you come for a few days? My door is alway open, Gerard.” She offers, eyebrows creased together in concern.   
Bingo.  
“Oh really? I don’t know if I could, I mean, it feels a bit sudden.” I say, knowing that I already have her exactly where I want her. She reaches a hand across the table, nails painted a deep red, the color chipped at the edges where I assume she had bitten at it. She places a comforting touch on my arm and smiles kindly at me. “Shut up and just come back with me later.” She says quietly, and suddenly the same stab of guilt that I had experienced before jabs at me again. I smile weakly and rest my other hand over hers, a gesture that I know means nothing more than a thank you.   
We sit for a while, talking about ourselves, or in my case a fake version of myself until we are on to our fourth beer each. Lindsey has loosened up and relaxed a little more by now, her lipstick less of a concern when she drinks. I, on the other hand, am more alert than before. Alcohol tends to have that effect on me, stimulating my nerves and increasing my ability to understand.   
Perhaps it was this that made me spot him at the bar, facing slightly away from me, but not enough for me to miss his face.  
James.  
The hairs on the back of my neck raised at the sight of him, almost as a warning signal to say that this was bad.  
Surely this was just coincidence, this was a bar, a public place. He had every right to be here.   
But why was he here when I was, why was he in the record store when I was?  
What if he was relaying information back to Frank about me being here with Lindsey? How was I supposed to explain that one? As far as Frank was concerned, Lindsey was no one to me, and yet here I was sat at a bar with her all dressed up, agreeing to go back to her place with her.  
But Frank was not my biggest problem, it was the trouble surrounding him.  
James was not looking my way still and was speaking to the bartender, ordering a drink, and I took this as an opportunity. I had to know if he was here to watch me, or if this was just coincidence. I excuse myself from the table and tell Lindsey I just need some air. She smiles sadly, probably thinking it is because I was a deep and troubled soul when in fact I just want to see if the big guy at the bar will follow me.   
As I walk past the tables and push open the door, a wash of cool air fills my lungs. The street is dimly lit, the light from the windows of the building casting long beams of yellow shadows onto the gravel. I press my back against the wall, lighting up a cigarette from my pocket in order to calm myself. I am playing a waiting game, and I'm not the one who knows what they're doing.   
It must be a few minutes before I hear the door swing open and then closed again. Trying not to look conspicuous, I glance over.  
James, unsurprisingly, has found his way out into the dark, his phone pressed to his ear and his voice calm and slow.   
My heart thumps against my chest, trying to convince myself that he is just taking a phone call.   
I strain my hearing, trying to catch snippets of the conversation.   
“No I’m in Summit… Yes… Yes here.” His words are slightly muffled.  
Nothing I hear seems to make any sense, or at least not to me. I watch as he turns his back to me before I swiftly slip back inside.  
My footsteps are loud and quick against the floor and I move back over to the table. I grab Lindsey’s arm and pull her from her seat. “How about we go back now?” I say hurriedly, and her eyes lie confused upon me. She nods, struggling to get her words out as I drag her from the bar. When I open the door again, James has disappeared, though I am not taking any chances. I begin to jog, gluing her hand into mine so that she is forced to keep up with me. “Gerard!” She calls but I ignore her, knowing I am not safe until we are out in public on the street.   
I tug her along the dark roads until we reach the light of the inner town, people scattered around still and rush hour traffic slowly dying away. “Stop!” Lindsey shouts at me, pulling her hand from my grip and panting for air. I skitter to a halt and swing around to face her. Her breathing has increased from the exercise but she fails to show any signs of physical strain. “What is wrong with you?” She cries, but her words are lost in the space between us. I stare at her, still trying to find a way to process and then justify my actions towards her. She sighs deeply and watches me with sympathy, which is new. “You’re crazy.” She mumbles and pulls me close for a hug. Confused as to how to react, I rest my hands in the small of her back. “Maybe we should get you home, you’re acting like someone’s trying to kill you!” She says and I have to resist collapsing in on myself from the fear that someone really is.   
She takes my hand slowly, completely different from the way I had grabbed hers, and begins to walk alongside me slowly, helping me to catch my breath and adjust to my surroundings. There is nothing to prove that James has anything on me, but my intuition has never been wrong before. I am lucky that Lindsey is as infatuated as she is, otherwise I would have just blown everything and would probably have spent the night out on the street, where I am not only at risk of James, but also everyone else.   
The whole time we are walking, she speaks soothingly to me, asking me if I’m okay, do we need to slow down? Do I need a drink? I shake my head each time, trying so hard not to let my eyes dart around the street to stop myself from being watched by James without me knowing. Lindsey has a calming influence upon me, one that is different to the way I feel with Frank. With him, it is a loud calmness, the kind that makes you feel involved and important, the type that makes you want to tell the person you’re with everything about you and the world and if you think there is life after death and if you believe in aliens and everything you could ever imagine.  
But with Lindsey, the calmness makes me feel protected, like my arm is being slung over her shoulder and she is carrying me, wounded, out of battle.   
She leads me along until we reach a street that veers away from the path of the town. Walking side by side, hand in hand, she walks me through the small crescent shaped street until we reach a very small, one apartment up - one apartment down style flat. She smiles and climbs the steps to the front door, opening it without needing a key. I follow her in, the light in the hall blinding me partially. A straight, flat voice calls from somewhere, addressing Lindsey. “That didn’t take long, did he stand you up?” The voice calls before the owner appears, slouched and carrying a large bowl of chips. His hair is jet black and so tightly matted that to make it smooth again it would probably need to be completed shaved off. His eyes are an odd greenish hazel and his frame is so skinny that I am afraid he might snap. He stops eating and looks over at the two of us carefully, narrowing his eyes. “Jimmy, this is Gerard.” Lindsey says easily.   
The aforementioned Jimmy nods towards me, stuffing another chip into his mouth and chewing loudly. “You guys need me to pretend I don’t hear anything?” He asks casually. I instantly feel too big in the room and look over to Lindsey for reassurance. She simply laughs and shakes her head, already making her way up the set of stairs. “He just needs a bed.” She says and I begin to follow her.   
“Your bed.” He says.   
“Shut the fuck up!” She calls back with a laugh and I catch Jimmy smile before he disappears from my view and I reach the second floor.  
Upstairs is clearly the domain of Lindsey. After she gets the door at the top of the stairs open, there is an instant change in mood. Leading me in, she guides me to the first, main room where there is a large couch and a coffee table piled high with all kinds of things. The entire flat is mostly open planned, and I feel a sense of home creep in. Having a place that is open planned really suits me; it’s like everything in the room just flows perfectly into one another, like everything is connected.   
I like that feeling.  
Lindsey mumbles something about making me a coffee, and disappears for a brief moment behind me into the small kitchen area of her flat. The sound of her chinking the mugs and turning on the coffee machine are clear but I only hear it as background noise, letting my thoughts be the main soundtrack to the scene.  
I should be feeling relaxed, after all I am indoors and away from the prying eyes of others. But instead all I can think of is that I have just put Lindsey into serious danger. She cannot be seen as my accomplice in any way, she has nothing to do with my problems, and yet I am almost forcing them upon her. I try to distract myself, taking in her furniture and personal belongings, but it isn’t long until the temptation to check my phone grows too strong to resist.   
There is one text message from Bert, and I open it eagerly.  
I read it carefully but quickly, desperate to know any news. He informs me that he and the rest of the guys are safe. Mikey had objected to me staying, but he had told him to ‘man the fuck up’, which makes me smile. Despite the situation, I’m glad I have my brother looking out for me, even if he is clingy. I text back, telling him that I too am in a stable position, though I don’t include the part about freaking out because of James and risking an innocent stranger’s life. By the time I have sent it, Lindsey has reappeared with a steaming cup of coffee.   
It really is the perfect thing to calm my nerves, and I take a long, slow sip. Lindsey tries hard not to question if I’m okay, if I need anything, how long I plan on staying, but I know she is desperate to. “I hope you don’t mind taking the couch,” she says “I’d offer you my bed but honestly I’ve done my good deed for the day.” Her lips curl into a smile and I nod at her, taking another sip.  
“It more than a good deed Lindsey, in fact it was a great deed.” I reply, grinning gratefully.   
She offers me something to eat but I decline, feeling too shaken up for anything to settle. For a while she sits beside me, the TV on quiet and playing to blind eyes and deaf ears. In the end, I tell her it’s probably best that she gets some rest, and convince her to slink off to bed reluctantly.   
I kick off my shoes and lie back on the couch, the blanket she left for me covering my lower body and I turn off the TV. Lying there, staring at the ceiling, I feel glad that I have someone as trustworthy as Lindsey to rely on.   
Tomorrow I know I will have to face Frank again; I will have to tell him of my departure. That of course means risking seeing James again, but if it’s better in the long run, it’s a risk that I have to take.   
I end up drifting to sleep after I hear Lindsey’s bedroom light click off and the noise of the flat dim and disappear, thoughts quieting a little, just enough for me to hear myself breathe.

****

  
I begin to stir at the faint sound of beeping, the noise growing louder and louder until I open my eyes. In reality at last, I hear the familiar noise of a smoke alarm, and sniff the air to smell burning. Swinging around, I see Lindsey in a bathrobe and slippers, hand over her coughing mouth and towel waving at the alarm on the ceiling. “Everything all right?” I ask as I force myself from the couch and rush over to her, hair and clothes as crumpled as one another. I spot the culprit of the smoke as burning bacon, and swiftly rescue the sizzling pan from the heat, turning off the hob afterwards. I then make the smart decision to open the window above the sink to air out the place, and Lindsey sighs with disappointment. “Well, there’s breakfast.” She says, pointing at the charred remains of bacon I slung on the worktop. I look over at her before the two of us break out into smiles, laughing at her inability to cook.   
It’s almost like everyone I know is intent on burning food for me.   
I tell her that it’s okay, and that I actually like bacon black and crispy. Even so, she still seems slightly pissed off, either at her failure or my futile attempt to justify it. Eventually we share out the ruined food and pretend to enjoy the crunchy remains, just to make each other feel better. “I have to be somewhere today,” I tell her at the small table. “I hope you don’t mind if I come back in the evening. I’ll bring back food if you like?” I suggest but she waves her hand at me.   
“Go Gerard, Jesus it’s not like we’re _married_.” She jokes and I laugh shortly in agreement. She asks me if I want to use the shower, which I very much do and by midday I have asked to see Frank, dressed, eaten _and_ not had a single drop of whiskey.   
The latter I am not so pleased about.  
As I leave the flat,  Jimmy has the door to his open and I catch him shirtless, cussing profusely at a game and oblivious to my presence.

The air is fresh and fills my lungs deeply. I feel more at ease this morning, like I am less likely to have an utter breakdown and run half a mile across town. My feet seem to automatically carry me to Frank’s, remembering the path perfectly until I reach his apartment block. I hit the buzzer and wait, feeling oddly cheerful. Frank answers soon after. After telling him it is me, there is a small silence before he greets me, letting the door open. This is unlike him, normally I am his favorite person to see. Something feels wrong suddenly, and I contemplate turning around. But my stupid head convinces me that I must see him, must know if everything is okay. When I reach his door, it’s open. “Hello?” I call in, peeking my head around the door.  
“In here!” I hear Frank replies from the front room. Carefully, I manoeuvre around the door and close it behind me, stepping slowly into the sitting room. Frank is sat watching TV on the couch, and looks up quickly when I emerge in the doorway. “Hey.” He says smiling, though I can’t help thinking it looks different from his other smiles.  
Forced.  
I try not to let my suspicion show as I walk further into the room. “Hey.” I say cautiously. “How are… things?” I ask, standing before him. He stares at me blankly before speaking.   
“Oh the money? Still gone.” He says with a small, sharp laugh.   
This is odd, very odd.  
I haven’t known Frank for long, but I know when he is covering something up. It’s obvious; his legs are spread too far apart, trying too much to look natural. His hands can’t decide where they are comfortable - in his lap or on his knees - and he twiddles his thumbs occasionally.   
He’s hiding something.  
I take a seat next to him.  
“I came over because there’s something I need to tell you.” I say, watching him struggle to hold my eye contact. He nods, prompting me to go on. “I’m leaving town soon, two weeks from now.” I say, but it doesn’t feel like enough. “I’m going to visit my Mom, she lives in Melbourne. She’s really sick right now and they think it could get worse.” I say slowly, as if the thought has been eating away at me inside. Frank stays silent for a moment before he speaks. “Okay.”  
Okay?  
I frown at him, watching him very slowly. “You’re not pissed at me?” I ask.   
He shrugs.  
“You’re not going to beg me not to go?”  
Another shrug.   
“Are you not going to say _anything_?” I say raising my voice.  
“What the fuck do you _want_ me to say?” He shouts back and I scoff.  
“I don’t know, get mad at me or something!” I retort.   
“Fine. You’re a piece of shit. How can you just fucking leave me?” He says sarcastically. “Oh I’ll be so woesome without you.”  
“Frank what the _fuck?”_ I cry at him but he just shakes his head.  
“Not now Gerard, just don’t.” He says and leaves me furious yet silent.  
“Have I done something?” I ask, desperate to know what is corroding his insides. He looks at me with sorrow.   
“I don’t know Gerard.” He says, shaking his head the whole time.   
From the doorway I hear a sharp, clear cough and look up. James is stood there, watching the two of us. His gaze is stone cold and glued right on me. “Gerard, could we talk please.” He asks.   
“Sure what do you need?” I say bitterly, expecting a cocky laugh but instead I get silence and a glare.   
“Here.” He commands and I do as he says, looking back over to Frank who just shrugs at me, those shoulders so tired of it all.   
James leads me into the kitchen and closes the door, folding his arms and standing before the only exit. “When were you going to tell him it was you?” He asks.   
I feel my heart burst into action, racing up to my throat. “What?” I ask, trying with everything I have to feign ignorance.   
“Don’t do this with me, Gerard, if that even is your name. You took the money and I know it.” He says. I scoff and try and choke my thumping heart back into my chest.  
“Me? You think I took it? I barely have a job as it is let alone the knowledge to do _that_.” I say, which is actually almost true. James sighs, but not tiredly.   
“Funny that, because when I called Randy’s to talk to you, you weren’t there. In fact, the manager didn’t even know your name.” He says and already I feel myself begin to hum with nerves. “That’s got to be a mistake, maybe you spoke to the new guy.”   
“Not this time.”  
I shake my head at him. I have to find a way out of this, I’m good at talking right? “This is because of Frank isn’t it? This is because you can’t stand him having another friend that he trusts as much as you.” I say sourly, hoping he bites my bait.   
“I didn’t call the police.” He says, and although this should comfort me, it doesn’t. There’s a but here somewhere. “I called my colleague. He seemed very pleased to hear your name, told me you were a priority in our field.” He says.  
“What field?” I ask, genuinely confused.   
“The FBI.”   
It’s almost as if I can feel the color draining from my skin and pooling on to the floor, slipping from my limbs and dripping from my fingertips like water. My mouth has drowned in it, rendering me with the inability to speak and the likelihood to choke. Colleague. He works for them. James works for the FBI.  
All the times he had been there, in places where only I could have been he was watching me. Waiting for me to make that one fatal move and know he’d got me.  
“You have two choices, and I’ll make it very easy for you.” He explains. I watch him, the color threatening to blind me. “You can turn yourself over right now, quick and quiet, and we’ll deal with you. Or you can put up a fight and we’ll beat you at your own game.” He says, as if he is the cat and I am the mouse, stuck helplessly with my tail caught under his paw. Angrily, I spit out at him. “Go to hell.”  
“Most people pick the second option. I don’t know why, it’s such a boring way to go.” He says, and reaches for his phone. In under a few seconds, he is speaking to someone. “Get here.” He says simply, and stuffs it back into his pocket.  
I have to get out of this kitchen _right now_. I have to make it as far away as possible.  
I have no idea of the time limit that I have, but it’s safer to give myself less than ten minutes. I have no excuse to work slowly. I think on my feet and begin to clatter around loudly, hoping to God Frank will hear me. James desperately tries to calm me, tempted to shout loudly but he knows what it is I am trying to achieve. I slam the fridge door, rattling bottles and begin to scream as his hand clamps over my mouth.  
Dropping me instantly as the door opens, Frank pokes his head in. “What the hell?”   
Whilst James is turned to him, I take a run at the door, bursting through and grabbing Frank’s wrist.   
Pulling him behind me, I glance to see I have knocked James’s head against the door, and he is taking a moment to get up. Frank is shouting and crying at me but I grip him tighter as I yank open the door and speed through the hall. “Gerard what is going _on_?” He shouts, trying to get me off him but I hold him tighter.   
“Trust me. One more time Frank just trust me.” I say as we begin to descend. He quietens and nods. I finally let go of him, knowing he will follow. When we reach the second staircase, I hear James. He is much bigger than me, and I know he will topple the both of us if he catches up. Frantically, I turn to the fire escape window and Frank helps me swing it open on to the small iron staircase leading to the ground. We pound down the stairs quickly but James is hot on our heels. I peer over the edge of the stairwell.   
We are a steady four meters from the ground.  
At the rate we are going, James will get to us quickly.   
I glance back to the top of the stairs to see him clambering out of the window. “Frank jump…” I say as I climb on to the railing. He follows me carefully, the wind whipping our hair. “What?” He shouts back.   
"Frank JUMP!” I say as I push myself from the stairs and feel myself racing towards to the ground. I make sure to land on my feet, instinctively bending my knees and rolling on to my back with a thud. The wind has been knocked out of me, but I am not injured. Frank lands beside me in quick succession, and hastily I help him to his feet. I take the lead, running faster than I ever have before, tearing through the alley and out into the street. I hear Frank’s feet ripping at the concrete behind me, and so I take advantage, pushing myself harder. I reach for my phone and speed dial Bert, pressing it to my ear as we run. “What?” He asks sleepily.   
“Car… ready. Gotta get out.” I manage breathlessly.   
Without needing anymore warning, Bert sharply replies with a yes and hangs up. By now I am sure James has made it out of the building and his FBI pals are probably not far away from us. We tear through the main street of town, past Randy’s and suddenly something stops me. Frank almost collides with me as I skitter to a halt and hurriedly dial for Lindsey, who answers immediately. “Can you do me a huge favor?” I ask as I begin to detour, jogging over the street before a passing BMW can hit me.   
“What now?” She says exasperated.  
“I have a bunch of guys with permits to kill chasing me and I need to be at your flat.” I say.  
For a moment, there is utter silence.  
“You’d better explain everything when you get here, asshole.” She mutters and hangs up.  
Well, it’s an answer at least, and I’ve been dying to tell a good story.

After informing Bert where to pick us up from, I lead Frank down the small street to Lindsey’s. “Where the hell are we Gerard?” He asks, breath coming fast and short.  
“The only safe place left.” I say as Jimmy opens the door, still shirtless.   
“Lindsey he’s here!” He shouts casually, letting me in before slinking off back to his domain. As the two of us pile into the hall and close the door, Lindsey appears at the top of the stairs.   
“You said you had to be somewhere, where the fuck did you have to be?” She says, eyes flickering from me to Frank and back again. I can feel him growing tense knowing that he has to withstand Lindsey, but I’d rather him be tense than dead.

She lets us both into the sitting room, giving Frank a glass of water (he downs it instantly and goes back for a refill). I take her by the arm and lead her to her bedroom, not wanting Frank to hear this.  
That would be the last thing I need.  
Carefully and quietly, I begin to explain, telling her about the Louvre, about Frank, about what the plan was and how now I want everything to change because he is in there and I can’t stand to do this. All the while her face stays still, unchanging and emotionless, just purely listening.  
When I am finished she sighs heavily.  
“Holy fuck…” Is all she manages.  
“I know it’s a lot to take in Lindsey, but _please_. I just need to stay here until Bert comes and gets us. Then I’ll be out of your life for good.” I say hopefully. She frowns at the floor before looking back up at me. “I don’t want you to be out of my life for good. Jimmy always said I picked psychos, but it takes one to know one right?” She says and for a moment I am confused.  
“I’ll help you.” She clarifies. Overwhelmed at her hospitality, I pull her into a hug, and she grips me back tightly.   
“Just please, for fuck’s sake don’t get yourself killed.”

****

There is a horrible silence in the sitting room as I stand at the window, hidden behind the curtain, watching for Bert’s van to pull up outside. Lindsey keeps asking Frank if he wants anything, like she feels sorry for him.  
She probably does, she’s got a conscience.   
Every tiny creak of the floor or tap at the window makes me jolt with nerves, being so wired and paranoid is making me jumpier than usual. James is no fool, he’ll be on to me soon enough. I just hope it’s after I’ve put a few miles between us.   
After what feels like years, I see the van draw close to the kerb, and look over to Frank with hope. He stands, thanking Lindsey, who waves him off. He’s even polite now. I tell Lindsey that she’s a doll and a star and every sycophantic adjective I can muster before fleeing swiftly with Frank through the door, down the stairs, past Jimmy on his game still and out into the fresh air. When I pull open the car door to ride shotgun, Bert looks over at me.   
“Oh you’re not bringing him?” He says irritably. I look over at Frank and then to Bert, and then back again.   
“Back seat.” I mutter commandingly, and he slides open the van door obediently. I climb into the van beside Bert and strap in. “Welcome to Ray Gun Jones Mr. Iero." Bert says, glancing at him in the wing mirror. Ray and Mikey are speechless, but Frank stares ahead, ignoring them completely. “Don’t say we didn’t warn you.” Bert grumbles and hits the gas, throwing me back in my seat.   
All we have now is the highway and a fifty fifty chance that we’re going to be killed.  
Nothing out of the ordinary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next installment is probably going to be a while so please make sure you get to me on Twitter (@Get_TwistedOff) so you can ask any questions and keep up to date with uploads and stuff.


	11. Targets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is up on time because I am absolutely dying to get it finished, the ending is finally on the way and I really hope you guys like it! I'm now back home from my trip up north and I had a great time, really had a long time to just forget about writing and come back refreshed and ready to write!  
> Please keep leaving your wonderful feedback, it's really very comforting!  
> Also a huge thanks for 300 reads, you guys don't know how much it means!  
> Expect the next chapter relatively soon -hopefully!

I can tell he’s mad.  
He’s been mad at me enough times for me to recognize that the slope in his shoulders as he leans forward in his seat, the tight line his lips are pressed into, the small frown knitted between his eyebrows and his rough gear changes mean he’s not happy. Ray and Mikey have started talking to one another fairly loudly in an attempt to break the silence, but I can tell Bert is dying to explode at me. Eventually, he turns on the radio, and begins to speak in an angry whisper.   
“He _canno_ t come with us Gerard!” He begins, his eyes locked firmly on the road that we are only just managing to keep to the speed limit on.  
"I know, but I didn't really have another choice Bert." I say.  
"Um, yes. You did. You could have just _left him alone_." He hisses venomously. Bert is right, I could have just left him alone. In fact, in hindsight, I probably should have. But the thought of having James tell him, and then probably having to haul him in for some kind of questioning all because of me, made me feel sick. So there really had been no other option. "Bert isn't it better that he's with us rather than helping the FBI to _find_ us?" I whisper, hearing Frank's voice asking Ray something about our destination, hoping the radio is loud enough to drown me out. He sighs in his seat and takes a wobbly swerve to avoid a pothole. Even I am not sure where he is driving us, though as long as we are away from Summit I don't really care. "I knew I shouldn't have let you do this." He grumbles and takes a hard left, swinging us sideways in our seats.  
"Why?" I ask, feeling slightly offended. Was I not good enough? Had he decided this wasn't worth it anymore?  
"You get this... _thing_ about you." He says, struggling to find the words to describe it. "You get attached, you don't normally do it to targets, but normally I suppose we don't normally spend this long with targets." He reasons. Suddenly I am angry at him, the feeling rising so far up in my chest that I am tempted to shout so loud that I rattle the windows and force him to break. But I can't so instead I spit out an angry reply.  
"I don't get _attached_." I growl. I certainly don't too. I am the loneliest person here by choice. There isn't time for me to be attached to anything because I'm too busy drinking my life away and cursing at my feet for not fitting into the shoes of normality. Bert scoffs at me, shaking his head, and launches into proving me wrong. "Yes you do. It started out with the whiskey. Then it was those damn paintings. You refuse to sell them when they could make you so rich because you like them too much. Even now you're friendly with this clerk girl Mikey mentioned, and you see Iero more than you see _us_." He explains. I want to tell him he's wrong, I want to get really mad at him and force him to stop the car, just so I can make him look me in the eye and tell him he doesn't know a thing about me. But I can't. I can't because he's right, again.  
He's gotten good at being right.  
All I can manage to articulate from my steaming, bubbling anger at myself and at Bert for calling me out is one thing.  
"His name is Frank." I grumble and Bert smiles halfheartedly.  
"Told you." He says and revs at the gas as we hit the highway, speeding up so that the engine purrs loudly.

I spend most of the drive trying to get Frank's attention by watching him in the rear view mirror, hoping he catches my eye, but he is caught up in pretending that he doesn't know we all exist. I feel sort of guilty, knowing that nobody really wants Frank here and also something much worse.  
It's clear to me now why Bert is so against taking him with us.  
The first thing is this, James will know that Frank is with me, which means it'll be much easier to find us because we have the one person they are trying to protect. They've probably got some kind of top secret tracking device they're using to monitor all of us or something, we're practically giving them what they want.  
The second thing is more serious, which is difficult to be in this already grave situation, but it is. If the FBI are to find us with Frank who gave no consent to be with us, they could charge us for _abduction_. I don't know how long robbery, fraud and art theft get you in prison, but I can't imagine abduction would make it any less time to serve.  "We have to get him on our side." I think aloud to Bert, who is still avoiding my eye contact.  
"Oh no Gerard, no. Not 'we'. This stopped being 'we' when he sat in that seat. This is your problem. You want him on our side? That's your job, not mine. I am not risking my life for your stupid games any more." He snaps, which is much less hurtful than he aimed it to be. Like I expected him to do anything anyway. All Bert does is boss everyone around, taking the credit when it's good and blaming me when it's not. I feel stupid for thinking I could trust him again, for placing him as the victim who was just as scared as we all were. He was never scared, he wanted this. Deep down I knew it now. He wanted to feel anxious, he wanted to feel vulnerable and raw. We had gotten away with everything for so long that it all felt the same. He needed something bigger, like a drug addict after getting tired of his heroin addiction, he needed to move on to the crystal meth of all feelings.   
The only problem is, crystal meth isn't the easiest drug to shake a habit of.  
I fear that his paranoia, his constant ability to turn from helpless to controlling will drive either me, or him, insane. It had all been so easy before. We hadn't ever wanted anything more than to just cause trouble in the name of success. Bert had always been the level headed one as a kid. We were all kids once. Just hoping to make something of ourselves. What would my life be like if I had lived it honestly? If I hadn't have yearned for adventure and trouble? One thing was for certain, I wouldn't be trapped by the tight grip of a seat belt hurtling away from home and planning on never returning. I find it too easy to blame myself for this because it probably is my fault. I am the one that does this to Bert, I am the one that did the stupid thing and now we are all plunging down a dark hole, headed only for insanity. I have wished myself dead before, I have never done anything to achieve my wish, but I have contemplated it before. Maybe if I had, none of this would have happened. Everyone would have missed me for a while, perhaps Mikey would have cried, maybe Ray. Bert might have even teared up, but they'd have got on with their lives. But instead, I stayed, I have caused this mess and I cannot even tell the one person I can tell anything to because it's all because I can't keep away from him.  
Why can't I keep away from him?  
He's just a guy, a nobody. An unsuccessful musician, a lousy auction attender and yet he is the most interesting man I have ever met. Every time I am near to him it feels like I am living my life, like I am actually moving along in the world and doing something worth dying the next day for. Bert tells me he is not worth the trouble, he is just a target.  
And maybe he was just a target, once.  
Now this is more than just making an excuse and leaving because can I bear to leave? It was hard enough to watch him crumble when I stole everything he had, and now I must forget he ever existed.  
Bert is wrong.  
Bert is so, _so_ wrong.  
I'm not attached to a target because targets don't have a sense of attachment.  
People do.  
I am attached to a real person.  
I don't trust Bert in what he is doing anymore, and it is for that reason that I force him to tell me where we are going.  
"There's a motel just outside of New York. It's only small, a family run business. It'll be the safest place for us until we decide what we're doing with him." He says sharply, knowing now that I dislike the objectiveness towards Frank. Keeping back my agitation, I nod, and turn my head to the window, watching the road slip away behind me.  
I always enjoyed watching through the window of a car. I like my eyes to see everything that we pass, mentally taking down the route so that it is not easily forgotten. It's comforting to watch trees and roads pass by; it's like you can see the world moving at the actual pace it is spinning at - quickly, so fast that it's hard to make out some shapes. Ray has decided to try and diffuse the tension a little by interviewing Frank on every aspect of his life - where did he go to school? Does he have a job? Any friends? Hobbies? In the end I tell him to give it a rest after Frank's answers become too short to make any sense. Frank finally catches my eye in the mirror, giving me a look that tells me he's thankful, but at the same time, totally confused. I glance back solemnly, my way of telling him that I'll talk later.

By the time we reach the small motel Bert described it is mid evening, the golden sun beginning to redden the sky with watercolor strokes that dribble into the clouds. I am the first to climb out of the car once Bert has parked up, stretching my arms and legs after feeling like I have been flat packed and folded for an hour. He mumbles something about checking us in and I nod, just glad that he is going to be gone for a little while.  
Mikey slides the van door open, climbing out and being followed by Ray and Frank, who watches the ground with such interest that I'm unsure whether it's an attempt to ignore us or if he really is intrigued. The four of us stand there by the van in silence for a few seconds before Mikey clears his throat. "I was thinking, maybe we should get three rooms, one for me and you, Bert and Ray and then one for Frank?" He says. I shake my head.  
"I'd rather have my own room." I reply shortly, knowing that Bert will have already concluded that I should be separated from everyone else.  Mikey doesn't seem surprised, and nods in agreement. Silence befalls us again until Bert appears again, carrying three keys. He throws a set to each of us, calling our names. "Ray, Mikey, room 36. We've got the triple. Gerard, room 32. Mr. Iero, 34." I catch my set easily, not even having to extend my arm. I nod him a thank you and turn to the others.  
"If the general consensus is as I think, I'll be left alone now." I nod, which everyone else seems to have no issue with as we start towards the building. When we reach the corridor where our rooms are located, we fan off, Bert, Mikey and Ray disappearing into room 36. As I pass them, Mikey looks to me helplessly, his last notion that he feels any kind of sympathy for me. I stare back blankly before continuing, hearing Frank's footsteps behind me.  
We are wordless as he reaches his room, and I hear him rattling the key in the door as I slowly continue towards my own room. There is a brief moment of still silence as he finishes unlocking the door, standing there and waiting for me to turn around and tell him it's all okay.  
But I can't lie anymore, it's tiring.  
So I keep walking, all the way down until I hear his door close behind me, reaching for my own keys and sighing as I let myself into my new home for a while.

The room is as basic as expected for a motel. The bed is a double, but the discolored sheet doesn't quite fit properly. The carpet isn't the kind I would recommend walking on without socks and the wallpaper is tired and aged, grasping on to the wall with all it's hope. There is an old TV on top of a wooden chest, the kind that still has the aerial on top that you need to twist to adjust the quality of the screen. A small window lets a little amount of dying light into the room, faded, sun-bleached curtains drooping either side. There is a tiny en suite with a shower and a toilet, tiny basin and a misty mirror.  
It's a long way from my apartment, but it will have to suffice for now.  
I collapse on to the bed, which is thankfully not creaky or dilapidated (as far as I can tell) and lie with my hands over my face, darkening the room around me and shutting out the soft sounds of the highway. I'm mostly glad that I am alone, being so means I don't have to explain myself or risk pissing anyone off. I don't know what Bert's plans are for the next two weeks, but I know we cannot stay here. New York would be the perfect place to leave from, but we have too much time on our hands. We have to make for the edge of the country, that is obvious now, but I don't care anymore, I just need the escapism.  
As I try to let my brain relax, although it never really is, I feel myself slipping off into a dozy sleep.

 

****

 

The next morning I am awakened by a sharp rap at the door. Bert's voice calls from outside. "Leaving in five minutes with or without you!" He shouts. I groan into the sheets and force myself to roll from the bed, glancing at the clock. I should be happy, Bert has practically given me a lie in as it's midday. I have no clean clothes, so I abandon the idea of a shower. The morning light is bright and painful against my tired eyes. I barely slept the night before, drifting in and out of sleep lazily and yet never finding proper peace to rest in. When I reach the van, Bert explains that the new plan (discussed only by him, Mikey and Ray) is that we will keep moving, driving to Massachusetts today and staying over that night. "We'll need time to prepare, we can't just step onto a plane with no luggage." He explains briefly despite the fact that it is totally not necessary because I do not care at all. However, just because we have a plan doesn't mean the people looking for us don't. I try to tell Bert that stopping overnight will be a huge risk, and that we have no idea how close these guys are to finding us, but he waves me off tiredly and makes for the gas station for food.  
I would normally rival his rudeness, chase after him and force him to listen to me. Normally I would just go all out and explode, proving to him that he isn’t the only one who has coherent thoughts. I am usually the decision maker because I am the one with foresight, well usually.   
But this time I do not have the energy. I am tired, sleep deprived and worn down. I am stressed and yet at the same time I do not care. I am anxious about everything, Frank, leaving, getting caught and everything else, yet I am anxious about nothing all at once.   
Experiencing this kind of feeling is more than tiring; all I can wish to do is curl up and sleep until everything just goes away, until all of the worries and problem just disappear in a dreamy haze, lucidly solving everything.  
But they won’t.   
Life doesn’t solve itself.  
Thinking of the topic of Frank, I am surprised that he hasn't yet demanded an explanation, pinning me down and shouting madly into my face as he feels his life crumble. Instead, he has holed up into himself, simply going with whatever we do and remaining almost impossible to read.  
I long for the chance to tell him, to just come out with the truth and explain it never mattered because things are different somehow. But things aren't different, not yet. I cannot bring myself to tell Bert that I think this is wrong, that I should come clean and that I believe Frank has every right to be safe.  
The only reason he is involved in this mess is because of me.  
We pile into the car after stocking up on food and gas and hit the highway again, all of us on edge that someone somewhere is on to us. There is no music like the drive we had in France to the Louvre, no sense of road trip excitement or hopeful thoughts. There is just fear and silence, mutual terror and the sense that we are in fact going nowhere.

Bert left our destination relatively vague, all we know is that he is planning on driving from here in New York up to Boston, where Logan International will have flights running to Melbourne smoothly. We have at least a five hour drive depending on the traffic, which also means I have a smaller time limit to spill the beans to Frank. The first hour is uncomfortably quiet, but we cover enough ground to ensure that the next four and a half hours will be relatively leisurely. At some point, I drift off to sleep, the stress of having no sleep the previous night finally forcing my eyelids closed for an hour or so, and when I wake up, Mikey is dishing out cheap packets of potato chips and cans of soda. I frown at him as he leans over and passes me a can of Pepsi, and he smiles apologetically. "Sorry Gerard, but it's all I could afford."

The rest of the drive is loathsome and dull, even I have had enough of watching out of the window, and so the five of us fall back into a deep silence until we reach Boston.  
Bert has driven us to the most dull motel yet, and by now I am too tired to even care about the interior design of any of the rooms. It's only five forty five in the evening, and Mikey has suggested that we get some food and clothing for the trip. I decline instantly, telling Mikey to shop for me as I hand him fifty dollars. Bert and Ray agree to go, leaving Frank and I on the job for food. Bert has taken the van so we are left to walk. "Don't suppose you know any good places for quick food do you?" I ask casually, the first words I have spoken to him since we set off. Frank smiles shortly and shakes his head.  
He is expecting an explanation, I can feel it.  
I just can't bring myself to give one.  
The two of us end up walking for around half an hour until we find a small convenience store. Deciding that it's best we get stuff that is going to last us, we splash out on cheap, ready made sandwiches, beer and soda, chips, fruit (Frank's suggestion) and a few candy bars. Satisfied with our purchases, we head back for the rooms.

****

When we return, Bert, Ray and Mikey are waiting for us, Bert presenting us with keys to rooms similar to the arrangements of the previous night. Frank and I pass around the food and then stock the leftovers into the van, hopeful for the morning at last. Mikey dishes out the clothing he bought for us; Frank being handed several t shirts and a pair of jeans and I receive the exact same, only different colors. I'm almost flattered by the immense hospitality. By now it around seven pm, and none of us are up to feeling sociable. We end up slinking off to our rooms, our clothing and food being our only companions.  
My room is basic again, only this time with slightly better wallpaper and carpeting, though the en suite is not nearly as polished as before. The bed becomes my haven again, and I turn on the ancient TV, wasting the night watching stupid sitcoms and regretting ever having made the decision to be an outcast in the first place. The TV is the perfect soundtrack to hush me to a light sleep, and before long I do not care about the canned laughter or changing light of the room, and instead allow myself to just doze.  
There is a knock at my door.  
I am certain this means it is morning, and Bert is about to shout to me to get up.  
But when there is no voice, and I see the room is still dark, I decide I am wrong.  
Fear rattles through me, who could even be at my door at this time of night? There's only two answers to that question that I can think of. One, it is Bert and he is playing some kind of foul joke on me, or two...  
Cautiously and silently, I make my lethargic limbs move from their sleeping position towards the door, gripping the handle like it is my lifeline. As I open the door, the small, thin figure of a man stares up at me.  
Frank.  
He smiles slightly and raises the bag in his hand. "Mikey gave me your clothes." He says casually.  
Overwhelmed and yet relieved by the fact that it is him, I invite him in as I scour the room for the bag I have long forgotten about. As I search, Frank perches on the end of my bed. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" He asks and I freeze as I find the clothing. Turning to him, I watch him carefully, the way he is lent forwards slightly, the curve in his spine, the twist of his hands. "Maybe. Just not tonight." I almost whisper, my voice failing me just looking at him. Frank takes the bag and nods.  
"This is going to be the last time I see you, isn't it?" He nods, returning to his interest in the floor.  I sigh and move closer to him, enough so that he looks back up at me.  
"Unfortunately, probably." I conclude. It s only now that I realize it is unfortunate. I do not want to leave him behind, I do not want to have to watch him disappear into a spec on a map of a country, I do not want to have to put him behind me. I want him to stay here, just a little longer, just once more. I want him to sleep closer to me than rooms away, just so I do not forget the way his chest moves when he dreams, so I do not forget the smell of him or the way his hair falls when untamed. "Can we make the most of tonight?" I ask quietly, and he looks up, inquisitive. "I mean, if this i the last time, I don't want to just forget you exist, or you forget I exist." I justify. Frank watches me blankly, those eyes just watching, always just observing, as if they are porous and the world is wet, he must soak it all up. He opens his mouth only slightly, like his words must only drain out and not gush.

"How could I ever forget you?"


	12. The Devil and God

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this a few weeks late again - and I'm really sorry for that.   
> I'm in a bit of a sticky situation recently, and it is affecting my writing process, which I apologise profusely for. However, we are nearing the end of GDATD, and after it's completed I plan on taking a short break to relax and write over the summer. Around August, I'm planning on releasing a new fic, which is currently in the very early stages of planning and I know you lot are going to love it - well hopefully.   
> I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time even to read just a little bit of this fic, it's been amazing so far and I can't wait for you guys to see the ending. Please continue to spread he word if you enjoy it - it really does help because I am so proud of this story, like this is the only thing I've ever finished properly too!  
> Thanks guys.

The mattress doesn't quite fit the bed, I discover. The pillows are actually much flatter, more deflated than what they seem at first glance. The polyester of the sheets is soft but worn and is thin in places, ruffling and creasing in areas as Frank pulls me closer to him, our lips pressed together and bodies bare and vulnerable. The kisses we share are slow, unlike the other ones. If this is going to be the last time we see each other, we both seem to agree it should be savored and not rushed. We are aware of the fact that this is a public place, and that the walls separating us from other tenants is probably thinner than it looks, but that is not a hindrance to us.  
There is too little time to worry about that.  
A nervous feeling twitches my stomach, and I am unsure why. I have seen Frank now, from above and below and in many other ways, but this time is different. This time I don’t have to worry about getting everything out of my system for my own peace of mind. This time, I don’t need to do this.  
I want to.  
His hands trace the bone of my spine, sending shivers through my body. This time is going to be different, I can feel it.   
We are joined together at the base of both of our hips, his front and my back, Frank’s body relaxed and growing ever hotter as I try desperately to keep our slow rhythm steady.   
I am determined not to let this go to waste, and so for the first time the only drug in my system is him. The intensity of the feeling beforehand was momentous enough, but without the dirt under my skin, I feel everything in a new way. The colors of the room are sharper, the twinkle in his eye brighter and the noises around us more defined.  
I don’t know why I thought I would ever need anything to enhance this.  
Our rhythm is slow, I am the lock and he is the key and the tumblers are activating oh so slowly.  
Frank’s legs are a tangle in the bed sheets, his knees up and feet either side of me. I am growing more and more unstable each time his hands move to a new muscle, new tissue new skin cells, like a uranium particle undergoing nuclear fission, I am moving closer and closer to exploding.  
Frank pauses only briefly to slide down the bed, allowing my to straddle him more comfortably, relaxing my body weight on to my arms that are lost in the sheets, fists balling up fabric.   
It is taking all the energy I have not to let myself ruin this too early, little gasps and groans verbally escaping each time I fail to mask the pleasure. Time has lapsed and I am not even sure how long we have been here like this, both of us fighting the urge to ruin something so amazingly euphoric to experience. The guilt and fear, the lies and the charades have all been forgotten, all to leave room for tonight and everything that comes along with it.  
Considering the situation, our scandal is nothing worse than what I have already done. Everything is dirty, filth cakes all the words I have told Frank, mud splashes and stains the horrible things I have done, and still plan to do, even this moment is riddled with feculence and miasma. But somehow, despite the muck that clothes the situation, everything feels pure.  
In a way, it's as if the filth has cleansed everything and made this the most brilliantly sterile of moments.  
Frank pushes up to meet the rhythm we are slowly moving at, and I feel time suddenly jump as I gasp in shock at the sudden impulse of pleasure scattering through my bones. Frank's eyes watch me, his forehead strung with pricks of sweat, a few of the beads quaking and then racing down his cheeks and neck. A devilish grin tells me, this is it.  
Time begins to catch up with me as we speed up, the mutual effort it takes to make the other feel as alive as oneself makes my chest slick and hot with perspiration.  
Frank's teeth sink into his lip, biting hard as he fails to stifle a deep groan, so masculine and raw that it sends shivers down my own spine.  
Either time is getting faster, or my perception of it is failing me.  
My breath comes short and quick as the pressure within me builds up, Frank choreographing his movements perfectly so that each second there is a wave of astonishing pleasure that jolts me senseless.  
My body is growing weak, my muscles beginning to quiver and crumble under the extremity of the strain upon them, and I reach for the headboard for support.  
At this angle, Frank's eyes are centimeters from mine, and he watches me as I writhe under the pleasure. Closing my eyes so that I cannot see the way he watches, a choked voice sputters from him. "Open your eyes." He manages and I do as he says reluctantly. Strands of my hair are falling around my face, damp with sweat and sticking to my neck as I fight the urge to look away.  
It soon becomes easy.  
I didn't think that watching someone like this would have any effect on my sexual gratification - I'm not one for pornography. But it turns out, I am wrong. Because simply seeing the way Frank's pupils dilate as he twists with pleasure, seeing the sweat paint salty trails along his hairline, the way his lips part wider every so often for breath, is enough to send me reeling myself.  
This is as much his night as it is mine, and it is for this reason that I conclude he is to be the first one to surrender.   
By now all attempts at being discreet have been abandoned and instead I choose to listen to the sounds of him, the growl in his chest as he suffers the weight of the delectation overpowering him. I too am gasping for air, anything I can force into my lungs but all I can inhale is Frank.  
His hand reaches for the headboard and brushes mine, feeling somehow even closer this way, I watch as he shudders, back arching so his body reaches mine and breaking the thick air with a sharp cry. As the emancipation takes his toll on him, I am close behind, cracking the air like thunder.  
Beforehand, the experience caused warmth to run rings around my insides until I felt myself fall empty and vacant. But this time is different.  
Without a depressant to shade my feelings, there is a new end to the spectrum of pleasure. Sex is hot, a flame that boils the water inside until it leaves you steaming. But if that flame keeps going, keeps growing and begins to rage out of control there is a whole new end to the spectrum, an end where the pleasure burns, stinging the blood and leaving nothing but ashes and ruin behind.  
I did not know this existed until now, when my entire body feels alight with fire and I almost feel my skin hiss with the heat of the release.  
Rolling from him, I fall beside his small frame, the two of us panting for breath we cannot get enough of. My throat is dry and sore with the heat, palms slick with sweat and it takes all the energy I can muster to move the hair from my viscid neck. There is nothing but silence as our lungs come back into action again, chests rising and falling gradually slower and slower until I am able to work up enough saliva to swallow.  
I turn my head carefully, seeing Frank wiping his stomach clean when the strangest sensation flutters through me.  
An epiphany hits me, like a clergymen receiving a message from God, if only I had faith in that.

I have to tell him.

I have to tell him the truth.

To leave him in this way with nothing more than a goodbye fuck and a so long gesture is not just cruel, it's criminal.

Knowing Frank has warped me into someone new; it's like he threw me into the shallow sea and then dragged me out from the waves, leaving me a half drowned, completed new person. Bert may call it attachment, it could be me becoming soft. Either way, Frank has lasted upon me, he has been a permanent scar, a mark I can't wash off.  
And the thought of never seeing him again drives me insane.  
But not now, I decide. I am too tired, too filled with the aftermath of him that I cannot ruin this moment for the two of us, especially him. If Frank remembers me, I want it to be because of this night, not what I admit to him afterwards. Frank finally seems to catch his breath and composes himself, looking towards me. There is no smile or laugh, no embrace or tear. We simply lie there on our backs, heads turned to one another, just looking. The time that caught up with us hangs over our bodies and minds, threatening to tear away the moment soon enough, but we just lie there, taking it all in.   
It’s as if we are each other’s favorite painting, looking deeply at the brush strokes to see exactly what the beautiful piece is made up of. Before, I thought he was a blank canvass that I had filled with color, but it wasn’t until I examined him from here that I realized he was already a masterpiece, and that I had just forged my work over the top.  
“What now?” He asks, quietly interrupting the silence. One arm is crossed over his chest, the hand resting just below his shoulder. The other is limp beside him, closer to me on the sheets. I cast my eyes to his fingers, the rounded tips still and motionless. “I suppose we sleep.” I say weakly, my voice sounding pathetic in the quiet rather than gentle like his. I can barely read his facial expression, the dark distorting the key features, like the small crinkle beside his eyes when he smiles or the curve beside his eyebrows when he frowns. All I can make out is the reflection of light in his eyes, and the outline of his lips, which part enough for me to hear him whisper. “I don’t want to sleep.”   
This is a stupid statement, tomorrow will be stressful and tiring no doubt, not to mention the fact that neither of us can physically take anymore strain on our bodies and minds.   
Yet I know exactly what he means.   
Sleep means time will take over and we won’t get to savor this moment anymore. We will close our eyes beside each other and wake up never to experience this again. I don’t want that to happen either, I want to be in control of how fast time goes, and right now, I am crawling along slowly as the ground inches away from me.   
I don’t want it to speed up.  
I want to stay this way.  
Frank reaches for his clothes, advising me to dress too. At first I question why, but then I understand. If we are going to stay this way, then we should be ready for when time catches up with us again. Resuming our earlier position beside each other on the sheets,we relax and let our bodies take control of the passing of time.  
Eventually, despite all efforts to keep his eyelids open, Frank slips soundly into the unconscious state of sleep. I lie there, watching him for a moment, trying to understand what it is about him that has changed me so much. I wish that I wasn’t aware of the difference in myself, just so that I could remain ignorant and not have to worry about feeling the way I do. But I am, and I do feel different.   
I too feel the weight of my tired eyes fall upon me, and give in to time. Joining Frank in slumber should feel like defeat, but instead it feels like relief.

****

When my eyes finally open to the oppressive morning light, Frank is sat on the edge on the bed, his back turned to me. As I stretch, trying not to make it obvious that I am awake, he speaks. “You’re late.” He sighs quietly.  
“How late?” I manage through apathetic vocal chords.  
“Bert called an hour ago, I told him I’d come to wake you up.” He replies, still turned away from me.  
“You lied to him, I’m impressed.” I smile and roll myself over as I stretch my arms.  
“Well I’m more scared of a pissed off you than a pissed off Bert.”  
“Glad to know someone still is.” I mutter as I force myself up, swinging my legs over the bed and balancing myself when I stand up. There is a brief moment of silence as the heaviness of the morning lies over us, both of us knowing that no matter what we talk about, it won’t make the situation any more bearable. I decide to try and put myself into context, checking the time on my phone.   
It’s already three in the afternoon, and I feel sort of cheated of my day that I could have spent with Frank. After all, this is going to be last day.  
What an odd sensation that gives me.   
I turn to Frank and swallow before I speak. “We should find the others.”   
It’s only after he pauses between agreeing and standing up that I realize that was the wrong thing to say, that he wanted to hear something else. But I can’t take back the words now, I don’t control the passing of time anymore.   
We walk in single file out of the room and I lean myself over the railing of the open corridor, scanning the parking lot for any sign of Bert, or anyone.My eyes lie on Mikey, who is smoking by the van. I don’t have the effort to call him from here, so instead I traipse with Frank in tow down to reach him. He looks up as I approach and taps the ash from his cigarette. “Took you long enough.” He says casually. I shrug, just thankful to see his face.  
“I was tired.” I give as my excuse, catching Frank’s small smile from the corner of my eye. “Where’s Bert?”   
“He went to get food.” Mikey says, gesturing to the gas station. “Said you should make any phone calls you need to today.” He finishes, which sends a shiver through my bones. It really is happening, and it’s happening today. I nod at Mikey, feeling the color drain slowly from my cheeks. No one says anything though, no one dares to mention just how pale it makes me to think about this. Mikey offers me one of his cigarettes because I am low on my supply, and I stand beside him, taking a long drag. Frank stands awkwardly before the two of us, his arms by his side and he shrugs his shoulders every now and then. With a small smile, I exhale deeply. “Frank, this is my brother Mikey.” Frank smiles shortly, but Mikey glares at me angrily.   
“Oh so you’ll just tell him who I am?” He hisses.   
“Yeah to the guy we’re never going to see again after today.” I spit back. Mikey simmers down a little after that, turning back to his cigarette, at least someone still accepts my word as gospel.   
Speaking of gospels, I see Bert and Ray trailing beside one another as the approach from the gas station. When they reach us, Bert gives me a long stare before pointing to a payphone. “I suggest you call whoever you’ve got to call.” He says plainly.   
No hello? No good afternoon? It’s not like I wanted to hear one, or even that I am disappointed because I didn’t get one, I’m just surprised at his cynical behavior.   
Then again, I really shouldn’t be.  
I glance at Frank, who is now also suffering the stare of Bert, and slink off, back turned to them all, towards the payphone.   
I slide a few quarters into the pay slot and dial the only number I really know.  
Mikey has probably already called our mom, so she’s off the list. I don’t really have any others that I could talk to right now, so when Lindsey’s voice comes crackling through the receiver, I feel a sense of wasted friendship. “Hey Lindsey, it’s Gerard.”  
“Oh _is it_? Well that’s nice considering I thought I was never going to hear from you again.” She says bitterly, but sighs and apologizes afterwards.   
“I thought I’d better call before before I…” I trail off, unable to bring myself to say it to her. It was different in her apartment, because then there was still the chance that we could get away without having to leave.   
But now it was real.  
“Look, I’m sorry for the mess I made, I really am. I’m going to hell, I know, but if this is the last time I ever speak to you, voice to voice, I just felt like I needed to say… anything.” I continue quietly. Lindsey pauses before I hear her again.   
“You really are a crazy bastard.” She says, the smile clear in her voice, and I feel myself smiling too. “Thanks for calling Gerard.”   
“Thanks for everything, Lindsey.” I say, and hang up reluctantly. For a brief few seconds, I consider calling again, just so I can tell her something more. Just so I can say words to ears that won’t misjudge me. But I know I can’t, I’ve already outlived my goodbye.  
I feel a presence beside me and look up from the ground to see Frank watching me sadly. “I have some calls to make too.” He says softly, and I hand his the payphone, moving away silently.   
As I approach the group again, I am met with the stares of the group . I have to deal with each of them quickly, and so I give Ray a sorrowful glance to reply to his empathetic eyes, Mikey gets a disinterested shrug and Bert…  
Bert gets a scowl.  
“So he woke you up this morning?” Bert asks suspiciously. I eye him back carefully.   
“Yeah, he did.” I reply shortly. Bert can be as elusive as he wants, after today Frank and I will never see each other again and that will be the end of it. “Did you check for flights?” I ask ray, who seems awkward enough to not be involved in the conversation. “Yeah, I booked us tickets for tonight. It’s not until half eleven but that’s the best we’ve got.” Ray confirms. I nod him a thank you and glance back at Frank, who is engrossed in conversation on the phone.   
“Well why don’t you tell your new friend we’re leaving soon.” Bert says sarcastically and I feel so close to punching him.   
Maybe this is how he felt before he re-aligned my jaw after the auction.  
I have to say, no wonder he punched me.  
The four of us stand around awkwardly waiting for Frank to return. Mikey and Ray decide they’re going to head off to their rooms to get sleep before the flight tonight, whilst Bert opts to staying with me.  
Probably to spy on Frank and I, which is extremely creepy and I’d rather him just ask me if there was something going on straight up.  
When Frank does return, he looks strangely relaxed, relieved almost. I frown in interest. “Everything okay?” I ask him. He smiles and nods hopefully.  
“Yeah, everything’s fine.”

****

After finally convincing Bert that we should all go off to sleep, Frank and I slip into my room to spend whatever time we have left together.   
This, I decide, is the time to come clean.  
I don’t know what it is that makes me feel like I need to, other than the feeling that I experienced last night was one I couldn’t let slide.  
Frank flops on to the unmade bed and sighs deeply.  
I stay standing.   
“I suppose you deserve to know the truth.” I say slowly. Frank sits up a little and crosses his legs on the bed, like a child waiting for a bedtime story.   
“It’s ugly. And wrong. And you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone Frank.” I say, stood side on as if my body requires defense. Frank considers me for a moment and then nods. “You can trust me.”  
That’s a tough blow.  
With a deep sigh, I let the truth come tumbling out. I tell him about the Louvre, and about how it was all my idea. I tell him about how we planned to hijack the auction and how I was put up to it all by Bert. As I tell him about the part in which he became involved, I can barely look at him. I don’t want to see the hurt, or disappointment, or whatever it is he is feeling. And then I draw my conclusion. “Frank, whatever it is that has happened between us has changed everything I ever thought about the world. I wish I could take it all back, take back everything I ever did, but the truth is that I am not a dominatrix and the world is not my bitch. I can’t make it do what I want. And now I’d give anything not to have to leave.”   
There is a horrible silence that seeps under the door and into the carpets, so putrid that I want to vomit and expel it all from my body. But it stays, and it stings.   
“Did Lindsey know?”   
Three words. Three words? I can’t tell if he’s joking or if he’s serious, so I answer anyway.  
“Not until a few days ago.” I admit. “You have to understand Frank, I never wanted any of this to happen.” Frank cuts me short before I can properly finish and stands up, moving over to me so that we are almost face to face. “You did Gerard. You wanted this, and I know you did. You wanted the thrill didn’t you? But you got more than you bargained for, and now you don’t know what to do.” He says sadly, and I force myself not to look.   
I don’t remember the last time I cried. I think it may have been when my grandmother, Helena died, which is a perfectly good reason to cry. But now, stood before Frank with the truth laid down before us both, I was certain that I felt the prick of a stinging tear in my eye. “Do you mean what you said, about what you feel now?” Frank says finally, moving himself so that I have to look at him.   
His face is pale, eyes pleading and soft, looking up at me with question.   
I have seen Frank look so different wearing so many emotions, but this one is new.   
It’s peculiar too, because although it suits him perfectly, it’s gruesome and morbid, nasty to think about. Like a beautiful black dress, but worn to a funeral.   
I nod, slowly, feeling the sting of the tear fall from my eyes and chase my skin, sliding down my cheek smoothly. “I’m sorry Frank.” I say slowly. He watches me for a moment, considering everything. How his head is able to cope with all of this is beyond me, I can barely cope and I was the one who caused this mess. Eventually, he sighs. “I believe you.” He says, and pulls me in close, wrapping his arms around my waist and burying his face into my clothing. “I believe you.”  
Shock has never really been an issue for me, except for the one time I broke down and nearly had a panic attack after crossing the street and nearly being hit by a sixteen wheeler. However, having Frank embrace me in this way, forgiving me completely, was the most shocking thing I have ever experienced. Automatically, my arms curl around him and we stand there, me crying stupidly into him and him crying stupidly into me. When we finally let go, we can’t help but smile at ourselves.

The criminal and the freak. The Devil and God.

  
It is then that the most obvious thing dawns upon me, and I am stunned at my idiocy concerning why I didn’t think of it before. I grab Frank’s shoulders and stare at him intently. “Come with me.” I say, almost a whisper. Frank frowns in confusion.   
“What?”  
“Come with me! Then we can forget this ever happened at all.” I say, a smile breaking out on to my face. He seems to understand this time, and begins smiling too. “Okay.” He says.   
“Really?” I ask seriously.  
“Yes!” He says and begins to laugh gently. I laugh with him, and suddenly we are laughing and crying, and everything just feels like it’s going to be okay.  
It is going to be okay.  
For the first time ever, it’s all going to be okay.

****

I bang on Bert’s door, smashing against it rapidly. I have left Frank in the room because if this turns ugly, I’d rather him be ignorant to it . When Bert finally opens the door, he glares at me. “You’d better have a damn good reason for waking me up.” I push past him and into the room, frowning quickly at the mess it is already in. Ray and Mikey sit on their respective beds, rubbing their eyes and scratching their heads. “I have an answer to our problem!” I say to Bert, the other two totally disinterested.   
“We don’t have a problem Gerard.” he says condescendingly.   
“Really? Because not so long ago, Iero was still a problem.” I say. Bert stands silent for a moment, unable to deny me of my correct statement.   
“What?” He asks impatiently.  
“He comes with us.”  
Now Ray and Mikey are interested.   
“Are you _nuts_?” Ray exclaims from behind me.  
"Are you trying to get us all caught?" Mikey disagrees similarly. I look to Bert, this is me and him now.   
"If he comes, we won't have to worry about him telling anyone." I reason, but Bert is silent.  
His eyes are trained on me, still and steady. "What side are you on?" He asks dangerously quietly. I frown in confusion. "Because ever since _he_ became a thing in our lives, you haven't given the slightest shit about any of us." Bert says, raising his voice. "Am I missing something here or is this just a cry for help? Because please tell me Gerard I would love to know." He spits out angrily at me. "I would love to know why _he_ is a priority over us, why he is suddenly your responsibility!" Bert is seething with anger and all I can do is listen.  
"You know, maybe I'm being unfair. Perhaps I'm just seeing this wrong." He says, moving closer to me and pushing his reddened face nearer to mine. "You have one more chance to prove to me you're not crazy." He growls. "Because he is not coming with me. So make your choice, him or us."   
I am unsure how to feel. Usually I don’t have to think about how to react because it is ordinary for me to just fly off the handle, but this time the anger that I experience is distilled and concentrated inside me. I can’t find the hatred to explode at him because this is not the kind of fight I can just win by swearing to leave, that’s exactly the reason I’m in this mess anyway.   
Bert has managed to step over the line. Beforehand we were teetering upon it, threatening to step over, but never being daring enough to do so. Now, he’d done it, and I was stuck in the middle of the only life I’ve ever known and the only person who's ever questioned it.  
“You’re an asshole.” I say, but the words mean nothing. He knows he’s an asshole, everyone does. It’s not like it’s new, and it certainly doesn’t bother him to know it.   
I cannot answer him, I can’t bring myself to make such a choice before them all. In frustration, I turn away, heading for the door. Silence is all that follows after me, angry, nasty silence.   
The truth is, I know I cannot stay here with Frank, it’s puts both of us into too much danger. I .know I have to leave with them, even though I would do anything not to.   
When I reach my room again, Frank looks up from his seat on the bed. His eyes search me for any kind of positivity, yet I radiate none of such. With a sigh he looks to me sullenly.   
“Don’t get yourself into any more trouble out there Gerard.” He says, and I feel the strangest urge to laugh. I feel like laughing because the guy that I have ruined the life of by stealing everything he had and testing his trust and friendship is advising me not to do it again.

For some reason, that’s comforting.


	13. A Battle Braved

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NEWS NEWS NEWS.  
> THIS IS THE LAST (ish) CHAPTER.  
> I am going to be uploading the epilogue in about fifteen minuets, you don't want to miss it okay?  
> Also I'm seeing Fall Out Boy tomorrow, so I thought I'd better get this uploaded on time.  
> THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE VIEWS LIKE REALLY. It would be amazing if we could get to 400 before the end of the week, but I can't thank you enough.  
> ENJOY!

Frank and I spend most of the afternoon just watching the sun dip deeper into the sky, the light beginning to fade from around us as the time to part draws nearer. When there is no light left and the moon begins to sneak above the horizon at around seven pm, I turn back to Frank.  
“I need to ask the guys if we’re getting dinner here, come with?”  
When we reach Bert’s room, the door is already open, and he is making his way out of it.  
 _What a shame_ , I think.  
A cigarette hangs in his mouth, lit and burning sweet smoke into the air. “Where are you going?” I ask calmly, though he doesn’t stop when he answers.   
“Got to fill up the van, we have a good drive ahead of us.” He says, pulling his jacket so it is comfortable around his neck.   
“With a light in your mouth? You’ll get the cops on you.” I say and he twists his upper body to face me, eyes tired and face blank of expression.   
“Boo hoo.”  
I scoff a scowl at him and lead Frank into the motel room, turning my back on Bert defiantly. Mikey looks up at me and gives me a weak smile, stuffing a fistful of clothes into a backpack. “Need help packing?” I ask awkwardly and he shakes his head.  
“It’s hardly a holiday.” He replies tiredly. This new experience with empathy has me caught again, realizing that my brother is as reluctant to leave as I am. At first, the still black and bitter part of me asks what he’s got to lose, surely there is nothing here for him? But then I remember that he grew up here too, he’s never known any other world than Jersey. No wonder he doesn’t want to leave it behind, everything is so simple and easy here, well it was.   
And then I think about it all, about each of us. Ray will leave behind his home, Bert will abandon his million dollar mansion, even I have an apartment and an extensive art collection to bid goodbye too.   
We all lose something that is so materialistic, easily replaceable.   
And yet I am losing Frank - the most irreplaceable thing on the planet.  
Ray is stood beside Mikey and acknowledges us both with a small nod. “Ray are we supposed to be eating here or what?” I ask, considering Bert has disappeared to fill up the van and he is the only other one around who has any idea of what we are supposed to be doing. Ray shrugs. “We can grab something on the way to the airport, unless you’re hungry now?” He asks, and I look to Frank, who shrugs.   
“I could use a bite to eat.” He says. Ray nods considerately at him.  
“Alright, we’ll wait for Bert and get some food then.” He suggests.   
“Speaking of which, how long does it take to fill up a van?” Mikey smiles, and we all grin a little, thankful just for the easy conversation.  I end up perching on the edge of one of the beds, feeling too big in the room when I stand. Frank seems to take in the place, and I can’t help thinking that it may be because he’ll never see it again, and that maybe he wants to remember it just like this, in this moment. He should remember it with us all in here, smiling and finally feeling optimistic about the future.   
Then I realize that’s ridiculously sappy, and that I am a major pussy.  
“So, Frank, we’re really sorry about all this.” Mikey pipes up after a short while. Frank’s head snaps up to meet Mikey’s eye, and he sort of just watches him carefully before smiling. “Your brother said the same thing.” He replies gently, which earns me a sidelong glance from Mikey.   
“Yeah, well it’s true.” He says awkwardly, suddenly unsure of what to do with his hands.   
So I’m not the only one that Frank has that effect on, that’s humorous to know.  
By now, Bert has been gone a strangely long while, and I look to Ray inquisitively. He shrugs. 

And that’s when I fall from my light perch, off the bed ungraciously, meeting the floor with a thud as the ground shakes under the explosion.   
For a brief moment, my vision loses focus, the edges of the images soften and the background and foreground blurs, all I can make out is the floor. A buzzing sound fills my ears, throwing off my balance as a hand grabs my arm and pulls me to my feet. Trying desperately to refocus, I see Mikey gripping me hard, his fingers digging into my skin. His voice is muffled, growing louder and clearer until I finally regain conscious thought.   
“Gerard? Shit, are you okay?” He cries, arms holding me strong and steady. I attempt to gauge the extent of the damage and what has happened. So far nothing but a few paintings on the walls and things on the bed have fallen, the only aftermath from something powerful enough that it threw me to the ground. Frank and Ray look like deer in headlights, clutching on to the wall as if the earth is going to rumble again. “What happened?” I say, rubbing my eyes.  
“I don’t know, but it was no fucking earthquake.” Mikey replies, letting me go so that I can find my own balance. I look to him, my own little brother, to see him stunned, petrified.   
Shakily, I move towards the door, pulling it open and coming face to face with a scorched and beaten Bert. There is a malicious burn stretching down his arm and the clothing on his shoulder is singed, suggesting his back is pretty badly damaged too. “Holy shit…” I mutter, taking in the blood at his lip and hairline, body weak and frightened.   
“I swear I threw that fucking thing away from the gas.” He mutters shakily and I stare at him in shock. I look over his shoulder, a plume of flame erupting from where the gas station had been. I cannot find the anger inside of me to shout at him, to tell him I was right, that I told him so. Who smokes in a gas station anyway? All I can do is stare in horror at the tragedy behind him, the tragedy that is curling up the sides of the motel complex, no less than twenty meters from us. “Get in here.” I manage, standing aside to let him past. I hear Mikey and Ray gasp in shock as Bert approaches them, and decide to asses the situation, seeing people swiftly spilling from the building. Already the sound of sirens is evident, and I follow the familiar and reassuring whine until I see police cars pull up in the parking lot.  
Alongside them, sleek bodied, darkened windowed black cars draw close.  
Black cars?  
It isn’t until I finally put two and two together that I realize what that means.  
Black cars.  
The terror begins to rise inside me as three more of them turn into the motel parking lot.  
Black cars.  
“Guys…” I call, gaining their attention again. Ray approaches from behind me, takes one look at the men spilling from the vans and out into the air, bullet proof vests and guns giving it away that they have found us.  
And what a time too.  
“We have company!” Ray calls into the room, pulling me away from the door. Mikey is attending to Bert’s burns, which without his shirt look even more horrific. Deep, red blisters bleed painfully, threatening to make him pass out there on the floor as they lay work to permanently scarring his body and he winces with each breath. Frank is panicked and confused, pacing the floor, not knowing who to look to. “We have to get out of here, now.” I say, heading straight for the window at the far side of the room and throwing it open. “Whoa Gerard, hold on. Bert’s badly injured. We can’t just jump from a window!” Mikey interrupts me, the stress cutting deep lines into his forehead.   
“The van is surrounded too, so we can’t get out that way.” Ray says, glancing through the peephole in the door.  
“Gerard what do we do? They’re going to find us!” Mikey stammers, stressful, confused tears beginning to drown his hazel eyes. I have to think quickly, there is no time to get to the van now, the window is a no go with Bert, there has to be another way out of every situation, but this time we are against two clocks, one that counts down to our fiery deaths, and another that counts down to our apprehension and then life imprisonment. I force myself to think, pressing my fingers to my temples and scrunching my eyes shut. My ideas usually come as floods, like a bursting dam, but today they are barely even a trickle. The pressure in the room is rising, everyone growing agitated and nervous, but I just can’t think fast enough.“Gerard there are guys in the corridor!” Ray screams, which is all the prompt my brain needs to at last kick into action.  
“The roof! There’s always a fire escape on a roof, go!” I say, shoving Frank, Mikey and Bert towards the window.   
“No.” Bert chokes, his voice dripping with the affliction of the wounds, pressing a hand to the frame to stop himself.   
“You have to go Bert!” I say, growing impatient. “I’ll stay with Ray and hold them back while you go.”  
“I am the best goddamn fighter out of all of us, I _stay_.” He growls in agony.   
“Not like that you are!” I argue back bitterly, but he is adamant.   
“I stay Gerard.”  
There is no time for our usual conflict, so I give in, dragging Ray away from the door and pushing him to the window. Carefully and reluctantly, he climbs out onto the sill, turning himself around. His feet hang in mid air and his knees begin to disappear as he hoists himself onto the roof above. A hand reaches down for Mikey, who grasps on as if his life depends on it, (which I suppose it does) flashing me a hopeful glance as he too reaches the roof. As Frank is disappearing, the door cracks loudly, splintering the air. It falls to the ground with a thud, and two men dressed in black protective gear and helmets race in, carrying semi - automatics that glint in the light. In a text book format, they instantly  take up shooting positions, pointing the guns threateningly at Bert and I. “Hands up, right now!” One of them shouts. This is not the first time Bert and I have had guns pointed our way. We have never given into a piece of metal and an eager trigger finger, poised and ready to kill, and we won’t do so today.  
I look to Bert, knowing this is not the way we are going down.   
He nods at me, and as the agent begins to attempt to reason with us, we instantly launch into combat. I kick the gun from the hands of the agent before me and throw a blow to his lower stomach, winding him so that he falls forward. I reach for his gun, turning only briefly to Bert, who has successfully uppercutted his target and has his gun pointed at the guy. He is breathless and judging by the look of anguish on his face, ready to succumb to the pain he is in, but he is alive. “Get to the others.” He says, panting.   
“Not without you.” I say, training my gun on the men, backing away quickly towards the window with Bert. The guy who went for me climbs to his feet shakily, and I know it is now or never. Looking up, he lunges towards me, throwing me against the back wall, smashing my head against the brick so that I bite hard down onto my lip, drawing blood. In reflex reaction, I kick my legs out and stamp hard onto his foot, twisting over the toes until he is in too much pain to hold me here. I push him back and throw a dirty punch to his right shoulder, knocking him backward and toppling him on to the other agent, who has only just begun to stir. I aim my gun, pointing straight at him.  
“Shoot him!” Bert enthuses, stumbling backwards toward the window, calling for Mikey.  
I watch the agent carefully.   
We have never taken things this far before. We’ve done a whole lot of threatening, of course, and I know what a bullet looks like when it’s shot past your head. But never have I considered killing anyone. Even when I want to kill Bert, I know deep down I could never pull a trigger on his head.   
Am I prepared to shoot a man who is trying to do the right thing?  
Am I prepared to take the life of a man I do not know, who could be as enthusiastic as Bert, as intelligent as Ray, as caring as Mikey and as understanding as Frank?  
Can I put a bullet in the brain of an innocent man and stain my hands guilty?  
“Gerard, _SHOOT_!” Bert cries, launching himself out of the window. In panic, I lower the gun and fire, hitting just above the knee and watching as the agent staggers forward, falling to the ground in pain.   
_You haven’t killed him_. I tell myself as I help Bert up on to the roof, climbing out after him myself.  
In comparison to the heat of the room, out in the dark, night air, it is cool. As I drag myself onto the roof, I see Bert collapsed in torture from the pain of his own wounds, crying out as the skin burns. Mikey and Ray help him to his feet, and Frank is stood away from them all, fear laced through his eyes. I instantly go for him, reaching him quickly over the tiles and pulling him close for an embrace. “Don’t worry, we’re nearly out.” I whisper as I let him go, turning to the scene below us.   
The fire has already made it’s way closer to us, the far end of the roof already caving in under the intense heat and pressure. The FBI agents in the parking lot are pointing torches and speaking into earpieces, searching the ground and escaped guests for us. We are luckily shaded by the darkness here, but we won’t be for long.  
I turn back to Mikey and Ray, who have hauled Bert to his feet and are offering to carry him.   
“Where now Gerard?” Mikey calls desperately. I scan the area, looking for the fire escape.   
It has to be here.  
It is then that my eyes lie upon the tragic truth.  
The fire escape is over at the other end of the roof, already blanketed with flames. I glance down at the other end of the building but there are no stairs or platforms in sight for us to get to.  
We are trapped.  
We have two choices, fire or _gun_ fire.   
Alarm strikes me, the air too loud with the sound of fire and ringing bells and shouts of agents and sirens of fire trucks and screams of Bert and then quiet.   
Quiet, for one, pinnacle moment.   
I peer over the edge of the roof, down into the darkness.   
“We have to jump.” I whisper quietly.   
“We have to _jump!_ ”  I shout to Mikey, the wind picking up, carrying the heat of the flames over our faces and whipping our hair around madly.   
“Gerard we can’t it’s too far!” Ray cries frantically.   
“It’s that, or them!” I shoot back, staring at him desperately. He nods in defeat, letting go of Bert and coaxing Mikey over towards me. The gun in my hands feels too heavy, and so I throw it down to the ground, listening to the thud. “You can make that.” I say, the smallest glimmer of hope holding on to my words, even though I know there is a greater chance that he won’t. Ray and I exchange glances, and he sighs, flinging his legs over the side of the roof.   
Before he pushes off, a cry fills the air.  
I whip around, thinking it is Frank but I am wrong.   
Bert is stood, shaking, his shirt still removed so that the burns on his skin are glowing in the dark. Tears stream down his face, angry and sad, sick and tired.   
The barrel of the automatic is pressed to his temple.   
Things like this happen on the TV all the time. They happen in movies and stories from people I’ve never met at a bar somewhere in downtown Summit. They happen to celebrities and fictional characters, soldiers and criminals.   
But never have they happened in my life.  
Somehow, I seem to know that conversation is the key. It’s like my brain has just unlocked a new part that I didn’t know existed, a part that tells me how to talk a man down from painting the roof with his own head. The blood within me runs cold, my limbs feeling weak with nerves.  
Slowly, and carefully, I stand, my legs shaking horribly.  
“Bert, no.” I say gently, taking a small step towards him. Mikey and Ray have turned full circle and are staring in horror. Frank stands in silence.   
His hands shake violently as he gasps for air through choked lungs.  
“I’m going to die out here.” He says helplessly. I shake my head.   
“No you are not, Bert, you aren’t going to die.”  
“Yes, I am. Don’t pretend I’m not. I can’t make that jump, I’m bleeding too badly. They’ll kill me, Gerard.” Bert's words spill from his lips in a jagged cry.  
“God, look at me. Even if they don’t chain me up in a white box, I’ll still be this. How can I live like _this?”_ He stutters as he forces himself to think of the struggle of living his life as a convict, as a cripple. “Bert please.” I say, stepping closer but he only presses the gun harder against his head.   
“You all think I’m _mad_.” He whispers as another tear tumbles down his cheek. “You’re all right.”  
“No Bert! Look, I know we have our differences, but this is your life!” I exclaim, feeling myself fall apart as salt water clouds my vision. I never wanted it to go this far. Bert and I have always been more like two hurricanes than blue skies. He was unstable, yes, but weren’t we all? This was _too far_. I wanted to tell him that this had gone _too far_. That he was wrong all the time and that he should have listened time from the start, but not of that really feels relevant anymore.  
It all feels redundant.  
“I don’t need life.” He says gently, looking down at his feet, his hands slowly relaxing. I feel relief wash over me as I approach him.  
Spooked, either by my movement or something else, that voice in the back of the head that tempts us all the time, his body shifts.  
His hand twitches.  
I freeze.  
His face contorts as he pushes out a flood of tears.  
I am too late, I fear, but I am close enough to almost grab him, to grab his hands and move the danger away from him. So close, my fingers itch for the touch of his skin. But then my limbs can move no more.

A sickening crack fills the air.

A crack that is so easily identified as a gunshot, that I daren’t look away.   
Time stands still, Mikey’s scream echoing through an empty vacuum. Frank’s hands cover his mouth, tears streaking down his face. Ray is silent, still and shocked as Bert’s body topples, like a tower, falling to the ground. A bright, white light blinds me as a torch finds my figure, but I cannot hold my hands to my eyes to shield them. They can see us now. Mikey rushes to him, holding him close, trying to wake him but his eyes are open and no one sleeps like that.  
All I can see is the trickle of blood, chasing down the roof tiles like paint over a canvass, thick, deep magenta.   
Slowly stepping toward Mikey, I just stare.   
He is finally quiet, still, silent and plain. He holds no emotion or even any age, the tired wrinkles in his face are ironed flat and are invisible to the eye. Mikey looks up at me, and I know the look.  
Help.  
I turn to Ray and gesture for him to go, to jump from the roof.   
At first, he shakes his head, refusing.   
“Well what the hell do you think is going to happen Ray? He’s not going to _stand back up_ if you stay here! Just _go!_ ” I shout nastily, anger seething from my every breath, my tears malevolent, stinging my cheeks in bitterness.  
Ray considers me, something between sympathy and sorrow crossing his face. His frame slips from the roof and I pretend that he’s hit the ground safely.   
“Mikey come on.” I spit through saliva that tries to drown me.  
“We can’t leave him here.” He sobs.  
“Mikey, COME ON.” I command but he glares at me.   
Mikey never glares like that. Not at me. Not ever. “Gerard, he’s dead.”  He seethes.  
I know, I saw it happen.  
“You never gave a shit did you?” He whispers accusingly. “You always thought everything was his fault!” Now his true colors begin to show, unveiled like a revolution flag being hoisted into the air. “Yes, he was an asshole, but Gerard you put us here. Bert is dead. He’s dead and I cannot live my life knowing that I watched it all happen.” He voice is so dangerously still, his face growing redder, the tears growing bigger.  
He has never accused me of anything.  
“I’d rather go with them.” He swallows hard, nodding his head towards the cars, the people inside already on our tail, drawing closer to us. “Take Frank, get out of here. I have to do what’s right.” He mutters, looking after me with sorrow deep in his eyes. I can say nothing, my tongue cannot form words, my brain can’t think of a grammatically correct, coherent sentence.   
So I nod.  
And I turn.  
And I walk away.  
Frank sobs quietly to me as I reach him, the tears on my own face drying coldly.   
The shouts of men grow closer, and it’s clear that if we do not leave now, we are as condemned as Bert is. “Gerard?” Frank says, trying to grasp my attention and pull me back to reality.  
“We have to go.” I say, taking him by the wrist and leading him to the edge of the roof. Ray has disappeared from sight, and I pray it is because he got away.   
“I can’t Gerard.” Frank says, shaking his head defiantly.   
“You have to.” I command, my toes curling in my shoes over the edge.   
“I can’t.” He cries harder. The men have already reached our area of the roof, I can hear them. Each boot on the tiles is as loud as the gunshot to my ears.  
As I glance over my shoulder, I see them swarming towards Mikey and Bert, a few of them dispersing and heading for our direction. “Do you remember when we ran from James?” I ask Frank calmly. He frowns in confusion, but nods. “Yes, I do.”  
“Good,” I say, and pull him close, wrapping my arms tightly around him. “Don’t stop remembering.” 

Before the hand of a cloaked agent can grab my shoulder, I fall away, his fingertips missing by a fraction of an inch at my shirt. Frank doesn’t scream, he doesn’t panic or squirm as we fall from the roof, he only grips tightly on to me.   
It is as if in this moment, time is ours again.   
The sound of glass smashing and fire setting off another colossal explosion rattles the air around us, the screams and shouts of men as they fail to reach our falling bodies. People everywhere, gathered in families and couples, friends and lovers, all of them safe and unaware of what it feels like to experience hopelessness, of what loss really looks like.  
Because when someone you love no longer exists, you have the hope that they will keep existing somewhere else, in your mind, in a Heaven or Hell, in the kisses of other lovers and embraces of old friends.   
But when someone you hated, someone you could not stand to live beside no longer exists, the feeling is very different. There is no hope or elation, no optimism or help. The only thing they leave behind is a confused, empty void that questions whether or not you know how to go on without them there. The void is like a black hole that draws in your internal matter, choking you, asphyxiating you, cutting off your blood supply to leave you numb and cold. You only have one option after the void takes over, and that is to hold on.   
Grab something that holds hope, that still has optimism with your arms so tightly that you depend on it.   
Clutch something that still has the innocence of a child you loved, or a toy you adored, something that seems immortal and that you would defend with you life.   
Hold it close to you so that the void doesn’t take everything, so that the gravitational pull is counteracted because the object is too strong, too heavy, too real for it to just disappear without a trace.   
Hold a lover, hold a friend, hold a brother or sister, hold on to yourself if you have to. Because without something there, there is no break to the fall, there is nothing to soften the impact.  
It is all you have to keep you alive.  
Frank is all I have.  
As my bones crunch against the ground, I fight the urge to cry out. Frank falls beside me, hitting the ground painfully. Slowly, I open my eyes to a sky so beautiful I cannot believe it really exists.  
The background of the painting is a deep black, blacker than a morning coffee with a friend, blacker than the darkest parts of the soul, blacker than the ashes of a fire. Upon it, the colorful, shimmering spots of ignited gas blink down and fill me with a strange sense of displacement, like none of it is real. The stars are the hope of the universe, one day destined to explode and release matter into space that goes on to make worlds and people and everything in between.  
If I was to die here, I would be at peace.  
But I am not to die here, not yet.  
Frank clamors to my side and surveys me quickly. His cheek is cut and bleeding and arm in an uncomfortable twist but he is alive. “Jesus, you can’t walk that off.” He mutters, taking up the bottom of my shirt to asses the damage.   
I try to find my voice, try to form words, anything coherent. But nothing comes.   
It’s like I have physically lost the ability to open my mouth, even for air, and so I lie on the ground in excruciating agony.   
Frank begins to panic in the darkness, glancing around over his shoulder to see if the voices that are getting louder are coming for us. For some reason, I can’t bring myself to worry about them for now. All I can do is keep staring up at the stars as Frank tortures himself over whether to move me or not.   
A sharp crack, like the breaking of branches under booted feet, snaps through the air, but in my ears it echos and ricochets oddly. No longer given a choice, Frank reaches for me, throwing one arm around his neck and pulling me to my feet.   
I want to help him, make it easier for him to move me, but I cannot force my brain to make my legs work, and as he raises me, I crumple forward in agony.  
My chest feels tight, my back aching with the crunch of a thousand grinding stones. The stars I could see in the sky are imprinted on my vision, blurring everything so that I see in a way that reflects the vision of a room full of intoxicated teenagers.  
Frank is muttering words of encouragement quietly to me, dragging me along, which is a feat in itself considering I have far much more height and therefore body mass than he does.   
I can hardly find the effort to breathe, each inhale is like a burning scar upon my lungs, and I question whether or not I am better off just not breathing.   
Frank tries to move us faster, but I am slowing him down significantly. He must be in pain too, judging by his dragging feet and shrugging shoulders, and I want nothing more than to take control, find energy and adrenaline in myself to stand up and carry him.  
But my legs are failing me, and my vision grows thick with distortion every second that I think about it.   
He has managed to move us a little away from the motel which is lit up like a funeral pyre, burning smoky brush strokes across the sky. With as much effort as I can work up, I crane my neck around to see the damage we have done. The entire building is engulfed in flames, fire spilling from the windows like a maiden waving her neckerchief at a suitor below. Despite the destruction, I can’t help feeling like the scene we have caused is the masterpiece of my own creation.   
If painted as a picture, or taken as a photograph, it would be the most stunning piece of artwork any critic had ever had trouble finding faults with.   
However, putting someone into the image changes everything. Because suddenly, I can see it all from my own point of view, I have my own thoughts and feelings towards the event. And what I can conclude is that artists are beyond pretentious when they look at scenes like this. Because it isn’t tragically stunning, it’s terrifying.   
But in the most numbing way.  
As Frank drags my paralyzed body through the brush, the voices grow louder. I hear him curse under his breath, beginning to panic, becoming stressed.   
I want to tell him to relax, but I can’t.  
I want to tell him a lot of things, but I can’t.  
He keeps turning back, looking behind him, trying to gauge how far away we are from being caught. It can’t be long now, and for some reason, I feel indifferent towards it.   
Even if we somehow get out of here, Frank is injured and I cannot focus on the ground beneath my feet, we need medical attention. We have to go to a hospital for that, and I doubt there will be a place in the world that hasn’t got the warrant out for our arrest.   
But still he drags me on with him, slowly and painfully, and I hear him sniveling, trying to ignore the tears rolling down his cheeks. As lights begin to emerge behind us, fast, swerving lights that jump from tree to tree, Frank begins to breathe faster, short and rushed.   
He tries to speed up, dragging me faster, my feet scraping out of time to his pace against rocks and dirt.   
Eventually my body gives up and I collide with the ground, pulling Frank down with me.   
My vision is at a point where I can only make out shapes, and as the figure of Frank tries to stand me back up, the lights grow brighter and faster.  
I hear him screaming at me, only it is muffled, like my ears are cushioned with pillows, or I am being held underwater for longer than my lungs can cope with.  
Eventually, more shapes fill the frame, dark, tall shapes. I am stuck somewhere between alive and dead, coherent and illegible, safe and screwed. My body feels limitless, as if the sense of gravity has evaporated and I am left floating no matter where I fall. Hands grab at my arms until suppressed voices command them to let me go, or at least I assume so considering I am suddenly free from their grasp.   
I can’t make out the shape of Frank anymore, and it makes me nervous. I want to call for him, shout for him to return to my side because I need him here. Without him I feel naked and vulnerable. Alone in the worst possible way.   
More colorful lights fill my vision, and the world suddenly falls into slow motion as hands prod me, trying to talk to me, feeling my neck and arms and placing masks over my nose.  
It isn’t long after they arrive that I finally submit and give in, letting the edges of my vision burn up like paper in flames, until everything is black.

 


	14. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. This is it.  
> What a journey.  
> I can't even believe I finished this like wow.  
> I'm going to take a short break from writing for a while, got to catch up with life first!  
> I'm expecting to start a new fic around the end of summer, maybe around July/August. If you guys have any suggestions, it's be much appreciated.  
> Thank you for everything, please keep helping me out with this fic, it really means a lot to have it viewed.  
> Love you guys, thank for everything.  
> -GT

“Anything new Gerard?” She asks me softly.  
I shake my head. “No, nothing more.”  
She smiles at me sympathetically, reassuringly, a way that tells me she understands everything.  
She doesn’t actually. I know that because I lie to her every day.  
Every afternoon, at precisely four o’clock, she pulls the chair from across the room over to the foot of my bed, smiles winningly, and asks me the same thing.  
And I tell her the same thing.  
“Do you remember anything more of ‘That Night’?” She questions patiently. I shrug and shake my head.  
“The same as before, really.” I always reply shortly.  
The truth is, I remember everything from ‘That Night’. I don’t know why she calls it that, but I suppose it’s better than calling it ‘The Night Bert Shot Himself’, or ‘The Night You Almost Died.’   
There are two reasons why I choose not to tell her. It’s not that I do not like her, because actually, Sarah is a very likable person. She has long, dark hair that curls at the ends in large ringlets, and wide eyes full of youth and optimism. She is slim, very petite and kindly, a mile away from Lindsey. And it’s not that I don’t want to tell her because she is a psychiatrist, because essentially, she is there to do her job, and if her job is not harming me in any way, I don’t feel obliged to argue against her.  
The reasons I choose not to tell her are not as shallow as my opinion of her, or her job.  
The first, is that I refuse to believe I am mad.   
I am not mad.   
Sarah has told me this far too many times in an attempt to coax me into telling her things that she wants to know rather than things she wants to hear. But saying out loud that I remember the man I tried to rob haul me from a burning building because I had fallen nearly forty five meters and broken my legs, three ribs, fractured my collar bone and spine, badly broken my left arm and convicted serious concussion, just sounded to me like I was mad.  
Mad enough to do it all in the first place.  
The second is that I don't want to talk about 'That Day' at all. I can't see how forcing someone to tell a stranger the events of the worst day of their life is going to help them in the long term, and in my opinion, it's easier not to go down that route.  
I don't like long conversations, especially not about 'That Day'.

My arm has healed ‘nicely’, according to the doctors here, and my spine and collarbone look ‘positive’. My legs are still in cast, but apparently that’s ‘expected.’  
They told me I was lucky to be alive.  
I don’t think so.  
Sarah and I often just talk about things, like the fact that I noticed a ring on her finger, and she launched into conversation about her recent wedding. Sometimes we talk about music, and art, which isn’t so bad because Sarah likes art.  
I ask her every day if she’s heard anything more from everyone else.  
Usually, I get a sad sigh and a shake of the head, but today is different.  
“Your brother’s trial was held yesterday. They’re sending him in, of course, but he seems okay.” She says gently.  
Being away from everyone for such a long time feels as if they are just characters that she has made up to entertain me. Like the fugitive Ray is still on the loose, living his life rogue, and that the young Mikey is being punished for his crimes.  
She doesn’t really talk about Frank.  
Even now, I don’t know where he is.   
All I know is he has a therapist now, or something professional like that.  
For a while, they had him in the hospital with me, they couldn’t let him go on with as much damage as he had.  
But he wasn’t admitted to my ward, wither by some fault of hand or not, and I haven’t seen him since. I look over at Sarah, expecting her to be finished, but she keeps watching me kindly, like she isn’t done.  
“They’re holding his funeral today.” She says softly, and of course I know who she means. “It’s strictly family only, but if you like I can have a word with Doctor Smith and see if we can let you pay your last respects?” She asks considerately.   
I think for a long moment at this. I don’t feel as if visiting Bert’s grave will dredge up any memories, I already have those to deal with. It feels more like I won’t know what to do when I’m there. What are you supposed to do at a grave? I doubt talking to thin, dead air will make a difference, and even then, what would I say?  
But somehow it seems right to say yes, so I nod at her kindly.  
Sarah is about the only person here who does not eye me like a fresh piece of meat. My orders from court are relatively simple; I am to be treated for my injuries, and then sent on my way to trial, and I suppose there could be worse things. My crimes were of course never, under any circumstances, going to be seen as acceptable, but I never intended to hurt anyone. Yet all the people here seem to act as if I have personally committed an act of extreme terrorism towards them, flashing me sick looks that can’t believe this is what their tax money pays for.   
It was supposed to be kept on the down low, but television is ubiquitous and the news broadcasts don’t like to leave criminals out of their reports.   
However, Sarah is the only one who doesn’t look at me that way, maybe because she is paid to, but it helps to know someone is at least trying.  
I haven’t really had any visitors other than lawyers and Sarah, they wouldn’t let Lindsey in during visiting times. At first I thought that was against my basic rights, but eventually I decided that I didn’t care. I wasn’t going to see anyone for a very long time after this, so it wasn’t really worth the emotional investment now.   
Sarah flicks through the paper on her clipboard and scans the writing quickly. “I still haven’t heard anything from Greenwood yet.” She mutters disheartedly. She is pushing desperately to have me admitted to a ‘psychiatric ward’ for treatment, mostly for ‘substance abuse’ and ‘immoral behaviour’. I really do respect her effort with me, after all, I’m hardly cooperative, and it can’t be easy to try and convince people to put me into treatment rather than punishment.   
If I was her, I wouldn’t make the effort at all.  
After another short chat, she waves me goodbye and walks away, her clipboard pressed close to her chest. I watch her as she approaches Doctor Smith, the two of them talking in hushed voices at the other end of the room. There are only a few others on the ward with me; a man in cast at the end of my row and another with some kind of head collar on the other side.   
Neither of them really pay attention to me, or each other.   
We’re all just sort of stuck here, waiting for one thing or another.   
After a long while, Dr Smith and Sarah both approach my bedside. The tall, dark haired doctor, who is probably around my age and clearly more advanced in the world than I am, clears his throat.   
“Sarah has told me you’d like to visit Bert soon.” He says plainly, which I feel is pointless because we all already know that. “With a nurse to accompany you, and Sarah too of course, I don’t see a problem with this. How does tomorrow sound?” He asks as politely as he can. I smile thankfully, and nod, acting as sycophantic as possible so that he doesn’t think me unworthy of going. As he leaves, Sarah hangs behind.  
I call her over.  
“If you don’t mind… I’d like to see… him… too.” I say quietly, hoping that while she is in this generous mood, she will grant my only real wish. Her face twists a little, her teeth gritting together worriedly, and her eyebrows furrowing. “I can’t say they will let him Gerard.” She manages. I shake my head, adamant.  
After a pained silence, she sighs, giving into me.  
“I’ll see what I can do, but don’t expect anything!” She warns seriously, before striding off away from me, down the ward and out of the main door.  
She says she can’t promise me anything, but I know that’s a lie.

****

The following morning, Sarah arrives early. Usually she isn’t due until the afternoon, but then I remember that today is not going to be consisting of our usual session. A young, blonde nurse rolls a wheelchair along beside her, her hair tied messily into limp pig tails, which remind me of Lindsey vaguely. “Are you sure you want to go?” Sarah asks me as two other nurses arrive and begin to unstrap my leg from its raised position. I nod my head, anything away from these blindingly white walls will satisfy me. As the other nurses begin to help me sit up, moving my legs carefully and making sure I am comfortable, Sarah watches interested.   
When I am seated as comfortably as possible in my state, the blonde nurse begins to wheel me alongside Sarah as we leave, heading for the outdoors.  
  
It’s been such a long time since I tasted fresh air, and my lungs almost feel too weak to cope with real oxygen. Only this is in a good way somehow, and as we speed along the street swiftly, I roll my window down, just enough to be able to reach my nose close enough to breathe the air as it whips past us. Sarah is driving, and occasionally glances at me from the corner of her eye, a small smile inching across her lips each time. The nurse is sat in the behind us, mostly because I protested to be placed in the uncomfortable back seat. My legs needed space, and I was not going to have them crushed up to my chin in the back.   
I feel strangely optimistic as we approach our destination. I am unsure why, surely visiting the grave of one of your oldest friends is supposed to be sad and tragic.   
But I feel different as the car slows to a stop, the nurse and Sarah climbing out first, instantly coming to my side of the car and helping me into the wheelchair. I take in my surroundings first, glancing at the trees surrounding the graveyard.   
I never thought Bert would be buried somewhere as rural as this, it just didn’t suit him.   
As I am pushed through the small gate into the graveyard, a strange sense of happiness washes over me. Bert always wanted quiet really, he never wanted the flashy lifestyle he had made out for himself. Maybe this was the perfect place for him to lie for the rest of the time I would remember to visit him. Eventually, I am steered around flowered graves until the wheelchair comes to a stop. I look up from my view of the roses on the ground beside me and stare at the headstone ahead of me.   
It’s odd to see his name on it.   
“Robert Edward McCracken”  
He’d be turning down there if he knew they’d put his full name on it. Sarah frowns down at me with concern, and lays a hand on my shoulder. “Gerard? Are you alright?” She asks softly. I nod, staring straight ahead. And that is, for once, the truth. I am alright.   
I am alright because I’m here and not where Bert is.  
I ask quietly for them to leave me for a little, and Sarah seems to understand, taking the arm of the nurse and strolling back to the car with her.   
It’s strange, to think that I was close to being there with him, to being as quiet and still, decorated with flowers and grass as he is. But I’m not. I’m here, on my way to being as able as before and detained for the rest of my life. I wonder if I am worse off than Bert.   
Alright, he’s dead. But he will at least never have to stare at the walls of a cell for as long as he lives. At least, wherever he is, he won’t have to worry about all of that now. Maybe he had made the right choice, morbid, I am aware. But at least now I see why. I see why he chose a grave over a cell.  
As I watch the grave steadily, I feel a presence beside me. At first I think it is Sarah, telling me I should probably leave. But when I glance at the shoes, I know I’m wrong.   
Two feet, dressed in battered and dirty Chuck Taylors, are parted only slightly. One of them scrapes the gravel nervously.   
I want nothing more than to look up, I want to see his eyes looking down at me, I want to see what he is thinking through the way his eyebrows furrow, or the way his lips curl at the edges.   
But I don’t. I just stare back at Bert.  
“Your leg okay?” He asks quietly.  
Normal conversation isn’t suited to the situation at all, but I try to make it so.  
“On the mend.” I nod, patting the cast with my right hand.   
An awkward silence begins to grow between us as we just watch the grave, expecting something to happen.  
“How’s the therapy?” I ask, clearing my throat and struggling through my words.   
“Helpful.” He replies after a moment.  
The temptation to look is too much, and I snap my vision to him.  
Having not seen him since ‘That Day’, I can’t really judge how much better he looks. His hair is longer, the shaved sides beginning to grow back, his fringe reshaped so that it now swings across his forehead, a youthful style I suppose.   
He is clean shaven, which I did not expect, though I didn’t really expect to see anything at all, not even him.  
“Frank…” Is all I can manage, feeling like my words are too loud for the place we are in.   
He looks down at me and hesitates for a moment, as if he is afraid of me, though he soon breaks out into a weak smile. I want nothing more than to stand up and throw my arms around him, but my unfortunate situation prevents that from happening.  
Instead, he keeps his hands tucked in his pockets, and shakes his head.  
“I hear they want to trial you after you’re better, right?” He asks and I nod thoughtfully.  
“What do you think of that?” He asks, which in a way I am glad for because at least he’s trying to find conversation.   
I knew Sarah wouldn’t let me down.  
“I don’t know, I guess it’s what I deserve.” I sigh with a shake of my head. “Maybe I’ll break out of the hospital and go on the run, find Ray or something.” I say, and he laughs.  
I didn’t expect him to laugh.  
We are surrounded by corpses, people who have bought tears to the eyes of their families, and yet Frank is stood before me, laughing gently at my sarcasm.  
It’s odd, but I’m not complaining.  
“How about you?” I ask plainly and he sighs, rocking back and forward on his feet.  
“They kept me in the hospital for a while, set me up with a personal psychiatrist.” He says, gesturing behind him to the other side of the graveyard, where a young woman stands against a car, texting away.  
 _Real professional_ I think bitterly.  
“At first it was kind of hard, I was told Post Traumatic Stress Disorder can cause loads of health problems, but really I only struggled with sleeping.” He nods slowly.   
I feel guilty. Instantly. It’s my fault that he felt that way.  
I definitely think I have it worse than Bert now.  
“Things aren’t so bad now, I mean, I’m here right?” He says weakly and smiles. I feel too vacant to return it, so instead I just swallow hard and pretend my leg hurts.   
After a moment of quiet, Frank gestures toward the grave.   
“Did you ever really like him?” He asks, although it doesn’t really sound very rude coming from him.   
I feel only the truth is in order now, considering I managed to cause all of this by lying.  
“Once, yeah, a very long time ago.” I reply, but I can tell it’s not enough. He looks after me longingly, pressing silently for me to tell the story in full.   
So I do.  
“We’d been friends since we were kids. Neither of us ever really fitted in anywhere, so we fitted in together. When we got older we realized that because no one really thought we’d be anything, that we could just live as recklessly as possible, no one would ever believe two outcasts ever caused trouble. Anyway, one thing lead to another, and by the time we were teenagers we’d met Ray. Mikey had already become accustomed to being as hopeless as me, so we just all stuck together. If we didn’t have a family that understood us, then we’d have each other.” I explain slowly. “The Louvre was the last time we ever really enjoyed each other’s company. Times change people, and success changes them even more. Bert and I just wanted different things eventually, but we were all each other had. It’s stupid, what we put up with just to not be lonely.” I add honestly. Frank seems to take everything in, in that strange, slow way as before.   
“What are you going to do now?” He asks.   
I shrug, because after all I really don’t know.   
“What will _you_ do?” I inquire. This is something I really do want to know.  
He seems to spend a long time thinking of his answer before he formulates his words.  
“I suppose I’ll go back to normal. They’ve offered to pay me back the money I lost, so I’ll be in a new flat. They want me to move out of Summit, reckon it’s better to have new surroundings.” He sighs. Something tells me he doesn’t want to leave Summit. I don’t ask though, I don’t really think I deserve to know.   
Frank looks down at me, hard, almost scrutinizing me. “Are you angry?” He asks shakily.  
Now that is a question I have not previously asked myself.  
I suppose I have a lot to be angry about, Mikey being locked away, Ray disappearing without us, Bert taking the easy way out, and losing everything I had, all for failure.  
I have every right to be angry, to want to lash out at someone, or something. And I guess, if I think about it hard enough, I can get angry. If I really think, properly lose myself in my own stream of unconsciousness, I can be angry. But the truth is, I don’t feel angry on the outside. I don’t feel like I must avenge the death of Bert, or break out my brother, or even find Ray. I don’t feel like I should hate my fate because in the end, I am the one who governed it. All of my reasons to be angry are wasteful and selfish because the anger isn’t honest. It is directed at others, people who were merely part of a chain reaction, part of a fleet which I captained.   
The only true thing I had to be angry at was myself.  
How could I allow myself to feel hatred towards people I forced into making mistakes? I was the one who had caused this, and so I was the one to accept where my decisions have led me.  
Otherwise, I am no better than a criminal.  
And I have since learned that I don’t want to be a criminal, at least not in the way I thought of criminals beforehand. Taking for myself, achieving self satisfaction was acceptable.   
But I had managed to do that so many times, and in so many ways, all of which I hadn’t realized until now.  
Stealing and robbing was the easy way to do it, of course it was. It was the most simple way to get exactly what you want, to please yourself.   
But I had been happy with Frank, I had found comfort in Lindsey. I had made moments of memorable laughter with Mikey and found compassion with Bert.   
I had self satisfied through everything, and the only thing it had cost me was time.  
What a funny expense - time. Most people would see owing time as something negative, something consequential. In actual fact, it wasn’t.   
Time is a body that owns us all, it inhabits us. Time is the only ruler of our fates that we determine, like picking an apple tree, and waiting for the fruit to fall.  
Our decision, time’s consequence.   
I had chosen my fate long ago, chosen to find Frank, chosen to interact and befriend him. It was all my decision. It had only been a matter of time before the consequences arose; our acquaintance grew over time, our affection and trust. Even our downfall.   
It was all our own decision, to understand and empathize with one another.  
It was the course of time that developed and changed that.  
So when Frank asks me if I am angry, he expects me to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ because of my selfish thoughts. He expects me to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ because of the primary events of ‘That Day’.   
What he doesn’t expect is the truth.  
And the truth sounds ambiguous in a graveyard, speaking it from a wheelchair as a nurse comes over to wheel me away, telling me to say my goodbyes.  
Looking him in the eye before I am returned to my consequences, I tell him the truth.  
“Only time will tell.”

**  
END**


End file.
